Haunted
by Scandalpants
Summary: The problem with being haunted is that you can never truly escape your ghosts. They dominate your memories, they invade your dreams, and they appear right in front of you when you least expect them. Even in the middle of an ocean. A noirish Logan and Veronica future story, told entirely from Logan's POV.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm trying not to think about you  
Can't you just let me be?_

_~Almost Lover, by A Fine Frenzy_

Chapter One - Monk

The deep blue spreads slowly, herding the sun over the horizon. Tonight's sunset isn't Midas, as it grants only a touch of pink and orange before its benefactor slinks off to light up another part of the world. He picks a memory to match in tone, staying away from any after he moved to Neptune. He's not in the mood for those tonight.

He lets himself remember his mother, and a particularly dreary day when he'd been ten and they were still living in Los Angeles. His mom and dad were both home and Trina was thankfully gone, staying with a friend for the weekend. The sky had been a slate gray, the deluge of rain keeping him stuck in the house while his constrained energy caused him to run around in a way that always got him in trouble.

But he'd been so _bored._ His father was in one of his moods, the kind that usually kept Logan outside long after his stomach had reminded him it liked to be fed once in a while. Already his dad had snapped at him twice, and he didn't become any more tolerant when Logan ran toward his room to get another Hot Wheel for the chase scene he was putting together on the living room rug.

Aaron was sprawled out on the couch, reading a script with his feet resting in Lynn's lap and looked up. "Logan! When you come back here you will walk. Do you understand me?" The threat was implicit in the tone; it didn't need to be stated.

"Yes, sir." Logan forced his feet to slow, and he made his way quietly to his room. He considered moving his setup to the bedroom, but it had already taken an hour to get just how he wanted it and he didn't feel like starting over. He just had to remember to walk.

Moving in measured steps on the way back, he dropped to the rug and put the car in place, smiling in satisfaction at what he'd created. He started executing the scene he'd pictured, making what he thought were realistic siren and explosion sounds in a low voice.

Logan was surprised when he felt his mother drop to the carpet behind him, curving herself over his back and whispering conspiratorially in his ear. "I have a great idea. Let's go build a fort in your room. Then I'll make popcorn and hot cocoa and we'll have a picnic in it."

His first reaction was to refuse in deference to finishing his car chase idea but, catching the tight, angry expression his father was wearing, he realized he'd messed up. Maybe it was the noise he'd been making, or the way he'd spread his toys over the carpet, but his father was mad again and it was his fault.

So, instead of arguing, he'd asked his mom to help him clean up his cars and they'd done just as she'd said. The fort they'd built was cozy and private, borrowing the chairs from the guest bedrooms to create a circle they enclosed with sheets. They'd enjoyed the picnic she'd promised while playing hours of Go-Fish and War, marooned on their own island where Aaron didn't live.

That night she had tucked him in and, like always, brushed his hair off his forehead before placing a kiss on it and whispered, "I love you, Logan."

Another memory tried to invade his mind. A night in a hotel lobby when he'd truly realized his mother was dead. He had bent over and grabbed his knees, and then—

_No. Not tonight. Go back. Remember Mom tucking you in._

And he does. Remembers the motion of her brushing back his hair and then laying a kiss on his forehead, both actions he associates with being loved. He remembers the soft way she looked at him when she said his name.

The sky now dark, he tucks the memory away where it belongs, with the name. He isn't Logan anymore. He hasn't been for a long time.

* * *

Heading down the stairs, he evaluates his options for the remainder of the evening. He's not tired. There isn't a lot of entertainment on the reefer ship to begin with, and this is the last night of an extra-long run. Their route usually takes them on a three week circuit but, because another tub in their four-boat fleet had been laid up for repairs, they've been going straight for almost six.

All the time at sea has exhausted their meager options for amusement. He's read every book he brought at least twice, and is saving a third reread of _Lonesome Dove_ until tomorrow. The large flatscreen broke about a week ago so group movies are out, and he's not in the mood to watch one alone. There are a few games on the shelf in the mess, but he's played more chess with Carlos this month than he'd ever thought possible and this isn't the kind of crew that considers Milton Bradley a good time guy. Since payday isn't until tomorrow, everyone is too broke to play poker.

Not wanting to head for his berth just yet, he walks to the mess to see if there is any coffee left. Most of the seventeen-man crew is hanging out in there, restless like he is. Once they drop off their load at Quellon in the morning, it will take the day to reach their home base in Antofagasta, in northern Chile, and they'll get a week of freedom before they start again.

As he enters the room, only one man ventures to call out a greeting. The feeble, "Hey, Monk", is followed by a few grunts and head nods of the others.

Monk. The nickname has become a part of him. His first week on the ship some cleversmith teased him about taking a vow of silence and started calling him 'Monk'. The cleversmith left to work on another boat, but the name has belonged to him ever since. He doesn't mind; it's as authentic as the name on his passport.

He nods back and grabs his java, then sits on the couch, closing his eyes and tilting his head back while listening to the others in the room.

Predictably, conversation is focused on how they are going to spend the time off. Captain Diego runs a dry ship so, as usual, the talk is as much about getting drunk as it is about getting laid. Monk hasn't had a drink in over eleven years, nor does he want one, so the discussion about alcohol just bores him. As for getting laid, he doesn't get a lot of charge anymore hearing about other people's sexual exploits. He seemed to outgrow that vicarious thrill about the time he watched the videotapes of his—

_No. No. If you can't keep your head straight, go to bed. _

Nobody says anything to him as he swallows down the last of his coffee and puts the mug in the bus bin. That doesn't bother him; he's used to slipping in and out of these rooms unacknowledged.

_Though, when they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, somehow corporeal ghost never made it to the top of the list. _

He hesitates a minute before he goes into his room. The evening is beautiful, though chilly. The cold doesn't trouble him and he's spent more than one night sleeping on deck, staring up at the stars until he can't keep his eyes open. He discards that notion tonight, though. The mood the other men are in, they won't be settling in any time soon and their laughter carries.

He attempts to read a little, but gives up after a few minutes and turns out the light. His memories want to come to the surface and it's taking an inordinate amount of concentration to keep them locked away where they belong.

So he turns his thoughts to Eva. She's his salvation on nights like these, when he would otherwise give in to every thought that tries to pull him backward. Knowing he'll be with her tomorrow is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. This job, this lifestyle, works for him on many levels, but he's happiest during the one week a month he gets to spend at home with her.

Nine years as lovers and it's a source of contentment knowing he'll be with her soon. He'll stroke that dark skin and kiss those sweet, pink lips. He'll sink into her softness and fall asleep holding her sturdy form in his arms.

Moving his hand down, he begins to stroke himself; sometimes that's all that is needed to help him sleep. He imagines Eva's large, warm hands touching him as his own hand moves; imagines her in all the manifestations of the act they've completed so many times. He pictures her soft, warm mouth lowering down on him. As the pressure builds he envisions that mouth rising to be replaced with her straddling him, sinking down and bucking her hips until he calls out her name.

If he has to push away memories of a smaller woman, one with fine, silky hair and petite hands that were always a little cold, that's customary. If, when saying Eva's name, he draws it out until it almost becomes something else, that's expected. He can't control those things when he's reaching his release. They are now as much as part of this act as anything else.

His body sated, his mind finally stills and he drifts into a quiet sleep.

* * *

The next morning, they pull into Quellon and unload the shipment of Argentinian beef they have been carrying. As reefer ships go, theirs is moderately sized, only about sixty meters long. The cargo doors are built into the side of the ship, and their stock is removed by forklifts, hand trucks, and a lot of old-style muscle. It takes a couple of hours, but knowing they're almost home puts everyone in a last-day-of-school mood. Their planned replacement cargo is small, but before they begin loading it Diego waves him over.

Though he spent a fair amount of time at home with his mother, a lot of Diego's childhood was lived traveling the world on his father's ship. His accent is slight, and he oddly sounds more like he's from California than South America.

"I've been fighting with Manny in the business office. We just got pulled for another job, and I couldn't get us out of it. Dammit! It'll add another about five or six days between picking up our cargo, taking it to Los Angeles, and coming home. We're going to be driving straight through, with no stops but, to pull that off, I need both you and Carlos to help me with taking shifts at the wheel. Es Bueno?"

_No. No "es bueno". You're from El Salvador. __I would think you would know what bueno means and use it correctly, dude. _

Monk has been looking forward to spending the next week at his La Culpa beach house, surfing and hanging out with Eva. But he also knows that they need three helmsmen, so there are not a lot of options. Eva will understand. Diego rarely asks much of him beyond the norm, so he can delay his homecoming by five days. His nod of agreement is redundant. Diego knows he can count on him.

"Ok. We only need a small crew; three to trade off on bow and engine watch, and three for navigation. There will be help with the loading and unloading at both ends. I know Javier will stay on as cook."

_Javier cooking is a good thing? Tell me our cargo is frozen rats again and I may die of starvation._

Diego and he walk over to where the other men are milling around, wondering why they aren't loading up their cargo yet. With a loud whistle, Monk gets their attention so Diego can speak.

"Change of plans. We got a one-time job. It means another five day stretch."

The resultant moaning that follows this announcement sounds like the death rattle of a herd of zombies. Diego raises his hands and bobs them up and down as he lowers them.

"I know, I know. There's good news and bad news. Ok, good news first: A couple of navigators that are assigned to the_ Angelica _live here and have agreed to help us out, but I need three more for bow watch and one more navigation. The money is good, double pay, and you'll get two weeks off when we're done. Whoever doesn't work it, another boat is coming through in an hour to take you home."

The men look more appeased and the grumbling lessens as Diego finishes explaining. Monk sees a couple of the crew raise their hands, and then lower them when Diego starts talking again.

"Now the bad news. Something went down; there is an American yacht about 45 knots from here. The crew and all the passengers are dead. FBI is on its way to investigate, but the bodies need to go into cold storage and be transported to L.A. We just got hired for the job."

_Oh. That's one delightful little detail he left out when he explained this. Who knew rat cargo could be topped?_

The men shift and shuffle their feet, looking at each other and whispering. This time no hands are raised. The desire to go home after all this time is pretty strong, but Monk suspects it isn't the source of why the majority are hesitating. When they are out at sea it isn't unusual for conversation to turn to ghosts and legends. The idea of spending even a few days with a boatload of bodies is enough to unsettle anyone, especially a bunch of superstitious sailors. He feels a little queasy himself at the notion.

_I think I just figured out the perfect setting for another Reanimator sequel, though._

Diego nods, knowing their concerns as well as Monk does. "Come on guys. Double pay? Two weeks off? No volunteers?"

Not surprisingly, only a handful of guys put up their hands. Monk groans at the slim pickings. The navigator, Louis, is an okay guy. He's just a young man who doesn't yet have a family so the extra sea time isn't an inconvenience. But the others are ones who drifted into this job because a conventional life just didn't suit them. They bring brawn, rather than the brains, to the crew; Chuck is a braggart and an asshole, George follows Chuck like he's a messiah, and Winston, though a hell of a nice guy, has the IQ of a mollusk with special needs.

_And, oh yeah, there's that whole gullible, hypochondriac thing. I swear I could convince him he had water-elf disease. _

They have to wait for the other two navigators to show up, and spend the time filling the freshwater tanks, disposing of garbage, and loading the food stock to get them through the next week. Since this jaunt wasn't planned, their choices are limited to what they can exchange with other ships docking, and the supplies loaned to them by their sister ship, _La Concepción, _when it comes to pick up their leftover crew.

_Awesome. Ragtag rations. I have to remember to tell Javier not to get creative._

When they finally get underway, he hangs out in the helm while Diego points them toward their destination, rambling about their task with anxiety lacing his voice.

"What the hell, Monk. It's good money and we just have to tell ourselves its meat, right? We transport meat all the time. There's no difference, right?"

_Nope. Absolutely no difference between people who were walking, talking, thinking human beings, and a bovine whose best skill was sticking its tongue entirely up its nose._

Monk shrugs. He's not going to interfere with Diego's need to rationalize. They're three hours away from picking up their cargo regardless of how they feel about it, and obviously it's freaking him out a little. The guy is in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looks like it was taken off, put out in the sun to dry, and then stretched back on. He's been a sailor most of his life and is a believer in much of the lore and legends that come with the life.

Diego lets out a huge sigh, and then looks over at Monk. "They say it's over thirty bodies. I want the large port bay lined with visqueen to protect it from contamination."

_In case they leak? Ok, that's just gross._

Grimacing, he heads off to find his help. It's just after lunch and at this time of day the crew that isn't working is usually hanging out in the mess. He can find a few loafers for the task.

He enters the room to a round of raucous laughter from four men sitting, their bodies oriented to face a portly fifth man, Chuck, who is standing in the position of storyteller. "…so I came home, naked, staggering drunk, covered in puke, with a parrot I got, God knows where, sitting on my shoulder. That's when she finally decided it was time to throw my ass out."

Stifling an audible snort, Monk avoids eye contact with anyone until he's sure he can keep his face from showing the derision he feels. _Something tells me the parrot wasn't the deciding factor in that decision._

Monk has heard this story before, as have most of the other men. But time moves slowly when you are trapped on a boat with the same people, travelling the same familiar waters, and even repeated stories break the monotony.

It's Chuck that notices him first. They aren't friends, given that Monk can't stand the man, but Chuck doesn't know that. Every snarky comment Monk has thought has been held back and, since Chuck understands subtlety about as well as he understands women, the other man is under the illusion they are actually friends. No matter, it makes it easier to work together.

"Monk, hey man! We're talking about things we've done to piss off broads. Got a story to throw down?"

_How about I throw down a helpful tip, instead? Calling them broads might be what's pissing them off._

Monk stares at the man. He has many stories to _throw down_ but he won't allow himself to think of them. Most of the time he doesn't even allow himself to think of the names of any of the women he's angered, except for Eva. Instead he distracts himself in these moments by imagining all the ways he'd like to hand Chuck's ass to him.

_Shoving a handful of live, baby eels into that mouth of his. Make him keep his trap closed until he swallows them. Not only would it be funny, he would be quiet for at least a few minutes._

After a couple of seconds of waiting, Chuck shakes his head. "Nah? Well, makes sense. Women are harder to piss off when you aren't talking to them or nailing them, right Monk?"

_Hmmm…With women, my tongue has gotten me out of as much trouble as it's gotten me into. One more thing Chuck hasn't figured out, I guess._

Chuck's bawdy laughter follows his own statement, as he looks at the other men to join in. But even in this group most of them are smarter than Chuck, and shift their eyes away.

Monk knows there is speculation about him. Though he has been working on this ship for over a decade, little is known about him. That he is mute, they can accept. That he is a hard worker, and Captain Diego's right hand, they respect. That he doesn't drink, they wonder idly about. But that they know nothing else about him makes the rumors run wild.

Whenever there is a new theory, Diego tells him and they share a laugh. The most recent is that he is a government spy. Why he would spend eleven years working on a refrigerated cargo boat, or which government he would be working for, is never made clear.

But Diego keeps his secrets, the few he knows. They had initially bonded over their alcoholism, though Diego has told the crew he banned booze from the ship for religious reasons; no one wants to know their Captain and First Officer are drunks. Diego is the only one that knows about Eva and the beach house. And, due to a long night spent reading the abbreviated story Monk wrote down for him, Diego is the only one that knows Monk never leaves the ship when they are in the U.S. because he is an American, and his passport says something different.

Now that Chuck has had his fun, Monk points to three men, George and the two navigators loaned to them by the other ship, and indicates they should follow him. George isn't bright, but the job ahead of them is easy. Though he doesn't know Conner or Vincente, he wants the opportunity to find out what kind of workers they are.

They grab the visqueen he indicates on the way, then follow him to the refrigeration bay and watch while he makes their needs clear. He's gotten good at using pantomime to give instructions and the men have no trouble understanding him. With the four of them working, they have the bay cleared and prepped like a kill room in just under two hours.

It's another hour before they spot a ship ahead of them. It's a large luxury yacht, the kind that carries as many crew members as it does passengers. A helicopter is parked on one of the decks, and a cutter belonging to the Chilean police force is nearby. They anchor as close as possible, though they are still several hundred yards away. Even a moderate sized reefer like theirs needs some lead room for stopping.

They use the winch to lower the smaller boat from the deck to the water, and Diego selects two guys, Javier and Louis, to accompany him, leaving Monk and Carlos to stay behind with the rest of the crew. Connor stays by the radio, using the ship's speaker to let them know the plan after Diego reaches the other ship and checks in with the feds. The bodies are being photographed, tagged and bagged, then will be loaded six at a time onto the smaller boat Diego took with him.

The rest of them will stay on their reefer, the _Penelope,_ to unload and place them into the refrigeration bay. A couple of FBI agents will be accompanying the bodies back to L.A. and rooms need to be cleared and cleaned for them.

Monk assigns Chuck the room prep since it will keep the guy out of his way for a while. The ships central hub consists of a four-story rectangle. The entire fourth story is a glass encased wheelhouse, with an upper deck that allows the bow watchman a 360 degree view around the ship. On the second and third levels are several berths that sleep two to three people each, and the main head and shower room. Lastly, the main deck level has another head, a mess, and a galley on one side. On the other side are a few storage rooms, and three private berths with outside entrances, one occupied by Monk, one normally occupied by their third driver, Carlos, and the last by Andy, a senior crew member who has gone home during this trip.

It's Carlos' and Andy's rooms that will be used by the feds playing body escorts. Little is required other than making up the beds and going over the rooms with a dust cloth, but it takes five minutes to make this clear to Chuck.

_Incredible. The guy can barely read, but acts like he's smarter than me because he can recite a limerick. _

It's another hour before the first boatload comes over, and the rest of the day is spent in staggering shifts, unloading fragrant black body bags from the small boat via a net and pully system, placing them side by side on the floor in the cold storage, then sitting and waiting for the next load.

It's surprising, the weight of a body after death. Their unfortunate guests have been gone long enough that there is no rigor, so they have to have a man on each end of the bag, pulling as well as lifting, or it tends to sag at the middle. Two members of the national police force, the Carabineros de Chile, come over with the first boatload to help and they figure this out and work out a rhythm.

The gruesome work naturally leads to talk of death; other bodies they've seen, family members who have died. Monk quickly tunes them out.

_No way man. Think about books, think about surfing, think about Eva. DO NOT think about that. _

After the last body is loaded, while the Carabiniers take the small boat back to the yacht, Monk and the other men go to clean up, taking extra-long showers to wash away the imagined contamination of death.

Monk returns to his berth and his books. The smell from the bodies is still in his nasal cavities, removing any desire to see what's for dinner in the mess. He pulls out a book at random and retreats into a fantasy world until it's time to watch the sun set.

* * *

Climbing the final flight of stairs to _his _spot, a small observation deck on the third level, Monk is disconcerted to see a pair of dark boots on the floor above his head. This is unprecedented. Everyone knows he has staked out this corner to watch the sunset. Eleven years on this ship and he's been out here, alone, every fucking evening. And he likes it that way.

He doesn't ask for a lot. He gets the job done and keeps to himself, doesn't complain or cause any trouble. Diego depends on him to run the crew and he always delivers. The least they can do is leave him alone for thirty minutes each evening. Just because they aren't doing their usual work right now doesn't mean this has changed.

Taking the last few steps with determination, he comes around the wall to toss overboard whoever is sitting on _his _bench. But it's not a member of the crew. Instead its confirmation he's finally managed to make himself go crazy. He'd thought allowing himself only this time each day to dwell on the past would keep him within the lines of sanity, but apparently he was wrong. Because if he that were true, he wouldn't be imagining Veronica sitting there.

But, as frightened as he is for the trick his brain is playing on him, he's also grateful. She's been just a memory for so long that the mirage is welcome. Even if she looks different. Her hair is shorter and straighter than the last time he saw her, and a little darker. She's rounded out a bit more, adding a slight fullness to her face. There are faint lines at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks are wet with tears, and she's wearing a familiar, irritated expression.

_Funny, you'd think when I finally got around to hallucinating about her, she'd be smiling at me. But this actually makes sense, since the last time I saw her she was also crying._

Just as he's about to give her a smile, she snaps at him. "Trying to have a private moment here. Do you mind?"

Her voice is what finally makes him realize she's real. Thirteen years since he's actually heard it, and he's been remembering it wrong. In his mind it was just a decibel higher, and friendlier. But no, it was always like this; just low enough to be sexy, and brimming with snark.

He can't move. It's as if his feet are soldered to the floor and, instead of watching the sky, he's watching the effect the golden, fading light is having on her skin.

_You found me. How did you find me? After everything I did to disappear! What the hell are you doing here?_

The words are caught, panic snagging them in his brain before they can ever attempt to leave his mouth.

She glares at him, her eyes narrowing in anger. "If you're going to insist on being here, can you at least turn around? You didn't pay for the show."

He's about to open his mouth to speak when he realizes he has no idea what to say to her. She's owed an apology, but if he apologizes for one thing he's going to have to apologize for a thousand. Better to wait for her to lay into him, and deal with her accusations individually.

But instead of the tirade he expects from her, she turns her head slightly, enabling her to avoid his gaze but still keep an eye on him. When she lifts her right hand to wipe at her cheeks her jacket falls open, revealing the gold badge on her hip.

_You're FBI? Shit. I don't know if I should be proud of you, or scared. Is this some fucked-up twist of fate, or did a little standard-issue Mars-nipulation get you here?_

He doesn't know what to do with a Veronica that hesitates to yell a list of her grievances at him. He didn't think even the amount of time and distance that has separated them would create a scenario where she would be treating him with the coldness of a stranger.

_Come on, Veronica. You always come into a fight with a set idea of how you want to bring me to heel. Let me know what you want from me._

While he's just continued to stare at her, not saying anything, the color has been filling her cheeks, creating a blush made of pique. Her silence, combined with her obvious fury, has him impatient to get this started. Just as he's about to say her name and end this standoff, she stands up, stomping her way toward the stairs.

"Fine. It's all yours tonight. But I call dibs tomorrow."

He's frozen by this unexpected turn, observing as she turns to climb down the narrow stairs, glaring at him for the first couple steps of her descent. But their eyes don't connect, and he doesn't know if it's because of the sunglasses he's still wearing, or because she's so obviously angry at him. Long after she's gone he continues to watch the stairs, both hoping and dreading that she'll come back.

_Is this your game, Mars? Track me down in a place where you have me captive for the next three days, then make me sweat it out? Or are you as surprised to see me as I am you? Either way, if I know you, you're not going to make any part of this easy._

* * *

**A/N: **A huge debt of gratitude to nevertothethird for so many things: Encouraging me to continue with this story, your brilliant beta advice, not holding back on either praise or criticism, and for suggesting the song Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy as the perfect accompaniment to this story. Not only does it fit perfectly, you've played cupid between me and a new favorite artist.

**A/N: **I am finally on tumblr (link is in my profile) so maybe I'll catch you there as well. As always, please review. Even if it's to tell me this story line is completely bonkers. I may not argue with you, but plot bunnies have to be fed or they start eating your brain.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two - Good Morning

It takes almost an hour for the sky to fully darken and allow the familiar constellations their turn on stage. Monk waits, but she never comes back. He knows it's his turn to make a move. It was his turn when she was standing in front of him. She made it to South America, made it onto his ship. The least he can do is walk the couple of flights of stairs to her room.

_So what are you waiting for? You know this routine. She lets you know she's pissed, you find her and fix it. She's not going to come begging for your apology._

He has every intention of leaving the deck and going to her room, but still he waits, and only once the last light has faded does he finally move, working his way down the ship to the head closest to his bunk. To a mirror.

He doesn't often look at himself. Living on a ship with almost twenty other men, vanity goes by the wayside very quickly. But, truthfully, he stopped looking long before he started this job. At first because of the extreme period of drunken self-loathing he went through; any mirror within reach had been forcibly shattered. Then because he just didn't care.

But now he looks. With the specter of Veronica fresh in his mind, he's nervous about the changes time has wrought since they last saw each other. He also has the strangest urge to primp, as if looking his best will appease her.

One look in the mirror changes his mind about doing any emergency repairs; there's too much to overcome. His hair hangs below his shoulders, dry and brittle from the wind, sun and salt water. He usually wears a ball cap of some kind, flattening the top of his mane and bushing out the rest. Today is no exception, that morning having donned the plain, black hat starting to show fraying around the curved edge.

His beard is one that would be the envy of Billy Gibbons, his eyebrows are overgrown and untamed, and his formerly straight nose has a bump in the middle and is pushed to the side. The once-rounded cheeks have thinned over the years.

The little skin on his face that isn't covered by facial hair is tanned a dark brown, and more creased than his thirty-two years should warrant. A crescent shaped scar at his temple is deep, and pinker than the rest of his flesh, serving as a distraction. It also pulls his right eye into a slight, permanent slant.

Due to the physical demands of his job, and hours of boredom he fills with workouts, he now possesses ten more pounds of torso and arm muscle that he did as a teen. A long, jagged scar runs on top of his left forearm, bisecting a tattoo of a heart split almost entirely in half, forming letter V in the break. He doesn't remember how he got either, but has kept the tattoo to remind himself what a maudlin bastard he is when he drinks. And how little drinking helps him to forget anything.

Holding his hands in front of him, he's sure his fingers are thicker than they used to be, his hands now dry and calloused from the salt water and continuous rope handling.

There was a time he used an entire line of skin-care products, had a standing appointment at a hair salon, and wore cologne that was more than two-hundred dollars an ounce. Now his only standards are to be reasonably clean and run a brush through his hair and beard once a day.

He gives the mirror a false smile, and finds it camouflaged by the bush surrounding it. His front tooth is chipped at an angle, adding to the hillbilly appearance he is sporting but detracting from any similarity to the kid she knew. It should have been obvious, but the thought finally occurs to him that her behavior meant she didn't recognize him.

_I know most people wouldn't look at me and see Logan Echolls, but _her_? Could she really stand two feet away and not know me?_

He looks closely at his eyes, but she hadn't seen those. It's hard to say if that would make a difference, given the millions of people that have the same dark brown color. He puts his sunglasses back on and stares at his reflection, reassuring himself that, with the cap covering the distinctive mole on his forehead and his eyes hidden, he has no discernible feature left.

_Which means, if you stay away from her, and keep the hat and glasses on, you might actually get away with this. _

Logan knows he should be relieved, and he is, but he's also disappointed and a little hurt. He can't imagine a scenario where he could look at her and only see a stranger. Most importantly, if she does recognize him, it won't leave him with this fucking difficult choice to make.

_But it's not a choice, is it? Just because she's now here, it doesn't change anything. If she really has no idea who you are, then you'll both be better off if she never figures it out. _

If he spoke she would recognize his voice, but that isn't an issue. Long ago, he woke up in a hospital bed with a broken jaw and suffering a nasty case of the DTs. At first he'd been in too much pain to attempt coherent speech, and nobody expected it of him. The two months he spent with his mouth wired shut he learned how much easier life could be when you didn't speak. Even after his jaw healed, he held onto muteness like a lifeline.

When you can't talk, people are less likely to ask personal questions. They don't seek your opinion, or often even acknowledge you are in the room. It's a huge change from the days when he would often put on a show of wit just to amuse himself and others. Sometimes he misses it - the ability to entertain or hurt with just the sharpness of his tongue – but he's also learned the value of holding back. You can't unsay something just because it was unkind, unfair, or taken wrong.

The little he needs to communicate, he gets by with some simple pantomiming and hand gestures, and most who work with him adapt to his form of communication relatively quickly. Occasionally he has to write out something he's trying to get across but few things are worth the hassle.

The real reason he stopped talking, though, is that it ostracized one from society. Not a bad thing when you've grown up in front of a camera, are answering to a fake name, and trying to disappear. Eva is the only one that knows the entire truth, and Diego and Carlos are the rare few that have befriended him in spite of his silence.

_Stifling every sarcastic thought that comes to mind is probably the only reason I can still count them as friends, though. It's definitely been a lesson in impulse control I sorely needed, even if it did come a little too late._

He heads toward his room, planning his strategy for the next three days. A strategy which is actually very simple. Avoid her. If she knows who he is she'll seek him out; if she doesn't know, it would be better if he didn't invite her scrutiny. Yet, he pauses at one of the two doors housing her and the other fed. There's a fifty-fifty chance he'll find her on the first try. Knocking would be an irreversible act, but he sees his hand rising anyway.

Shoving his traitorous mitt in his pocket, he turns and heads toward his berth before he pulls a Stanley Kowalski and bellows her name.

* * *

"_Veronica." Her name reluctantly leaves his mouth, knowing it's going to be one of the last times he'll be able to call to her._

_She turns and sees him, her face lighting up with a smile that is so big it actually pains to know it's meant for him. "Logan? I thought I was meeting you later. Just couldn't wait, huh?" She practically skips the few steps it takes to bring her to him and grabs his hands, gently running her thumbs over the mangled knuckles that still show damage from when he beat up that asshole in the food court three days ago._

"_Me, either. I was just heading over to the Grand." As she whispers, she puts his hands on her hips and snakes her arms around his neck, biting her lower lip in that damn way that makes him crazy, and he knows the expected response is a kiss._

_The effort it takes to withhold that kiss makes him grimace. That's okay. It's best if she reads it as his being unwilling to feel her touch. Reaching up to grab her hands, he pulls them down from his neck and steps back, letting them go. Letting _her _go in this first, incremental way._

"_Look, we need to talk." He shoves his own hands in his back pockets, reminding himself that's where they need to stay._

_He can see the confusion and hurt that clouds her eyes, and he hates himself for it. Especially when she crosses her arms over her chest in that protective way of hers and steps back, increasing the difference between them._

"_I'm not giving back your 30 Odd Foot of Grunts CD, if that's what this is about." The hint of a hopeful smile that flits across her lips makes this so much harder. She is begging him to take the seriousness out of this moment. They just started again; things should be light._

_But there's no way to make this easier; he needs to just get through it. "Look, after you left I had a chance to think. What happened…it was a mistake. I wanted you back in my life but we shouldn't have let it go that far."_

_There was a stopping point. They had talked through everything; Madison, Parker, Piz, Mercer, Logan's overprotectiveness, her trust issues and penchant for danger. Things were balanced perfectly for one moment, and could have tipped to the 'let's be friends' side so easily. But then she kissed him. She kissed him and finally, for the first time, said that she loved him._

_She isn't blinking, and the crossed arms tighten around her waist in a way that lets him know how much his words are hurting her. She's wordless, just standing there waiting for him to fix it. But he can't. He knows this is the right thing to do, for both of them._

"_Last night felt like the beginning of something great, but then I realized it always does. If we could just have beginnings this might work, but, Veronica it never works for us. Not in the long run." The last couple of words come out forced and cracked, sounding as brittle as they feel. His mouth has gone completely dry for some reason._

_Veronica still isn't speaking; does nothing to fill in the silence. She just statues and he has to watch as her eyes begin to fill with tears. He knows he needs to finish this, even if it kills him. The way his heart is clenching he thinks it just might._

"_So I think it's best if I leave. Just get out of this damn town and figure out what I want to do with my life. I don't want to put us through this again so I'm not…I won't be coming back."_

_The tears are now too many to be contained, and they begin to course down her face. Logan grips his pockets to keep his hands from reaching out to wipe them away, and desperately wishes there was a way to do this without hurting her. _

_"I don't understand, Logan. After everything we said and—"_

_Her quavering voice almost makes him take it all back; promise her they'll figure it out together. But he already knows the end to that story, so cuts her off and directs just a little of the ire he feels at himself toward her. "And it'll get us, what? Two months? Six, if we're lucky?" _

_Logan can see the way his harsh tone causes her to clench her jaw, and he knows it's just the beginning of her being angry with him. The apology gets stuck in his throat, so instead he steps toward her unthinkingly, for what he doesn't know. Maybe to touch her one last time, but she reads his intention and finally reacts._

_The sting of her first slap is welcome, as is the second. But the keening noise she makes as she turns and slides into her car is something he knows will haunt him. The sound ends abruptly as she slams the door and starts up the car, but is replaced with one last, anguished look she throws at him before driving away._

_This is so much worse than the last time he broke up with her, when she just stood there and took it; accepted his words and his goodbye kiss like he was doing them both a favor. At least then he was able to carry around the bitter feeling that he just beat her to it. After watching her ignore his call in the food court, he thought things were going to end badly for them and needed to be the one to walk away first. But he has no such thoughts of comfort this time._

_He wants to fall to his knees, but forces himself to walk to the packed Land Rover. He still has to drop the majority of his items at the charity shop and sell his car before he flies to New York. It will be the first of many countries he puts between them. But it takes all his strength to pull himself into the driver's seat, and it's another half hour of telling himself he did the right thing before his hands stop shaking enough to fit the key into the ignition._

* * *

It's been at least six years since he allowed himself to think of how her face looked that day, but it's still etched in his memory. Her pain had been fresh and raw, not so different from the woman he'd seen crying tonight. Lying in bed, his stomach clenches as the memory cycles through again and again.

He finally drops off around two, just to wake up a few hours later with his brain completely functional, as if it had been working the entire time he slept. He's incessantly wondering if she knows. And if she does, what she's waiting for.

Dressing and heading toward mess, his stomach loudly reminds him of the meal he missed yesterday. He hopes he's early enough that she won't have risen yet. The fact that she didn't seek him out makes it likely she didn't recognize him last night, but it was dusk and she was angry that he interrupted her private moment. Today it feels like he is walking toward his execution, waiting on a call from the governor.

_Well, if I am a condemned man, I'm at least allowed a last meal._

Getting into the makeshift dining room just after six, he's relieved to see it's populated by just Chuck, George and Connor. Javier probably already ate and most everybody else is on duty.

Monk nods at the men and grabs a bowl, serving himself a healthy dose of oatmeal and decorating it with a spiral of maple syrup. He sits himself at a table alone, leaving the others to their conversation. Until he starts to really listen to it. It's a Chuck comment, of course, that gets his attention.

"Yeah, that fed is hot. Did you see her ass? Oh, and that blond hair. Gotta ask the question, right?" George's laugh encourages Chuck's foul discussion to continue. "What I wouldn't give to get her on her knees and—" Chuck's comment is cut short when he finds himself lifted from his chair, and slammed against the wall.

Monk doesn't think he's ever been this close to Chuck. His sunglasses have slipped low enough that he can see the hair sprouting from the man's nose move in synch with his deep, panicked breaths. The guy has hazel eyes, spastic with stupidity and confusion. Just before he drives his fist into Chuck's face, Monk notices the silence of the room behind him. His crew has never seen a reaction from him that rose above mild irritation; should he follow with the beating Chuck deserves, they'll label him psychotic.

_Not sure they'd be far off. Nice to know she can still bring out this healthy side of me._

Instead of giving into his baser desire for violence, he pinches his thumb and forefinger together, running them over Chuck's mouth in the universally recognized 'zipped shut' motion, shakes his head, and lets the man fall to the floor. He walks back to his table and settles back down to his oatmeal just as Veronica comes through the door.

He quickly drops his gaze down to the table, and subtly pushes his sunglasses farther up his nose so the bridge rests comfortably between his eyes. They're his last vestige of protection.

_Is it too much to hope they'll work like an invisibility cloak?_

She is dressed in jeans and a worn-out Hearst hoodie, the letters cracked and flaking. The little extra rounding of her face he noticed last night is reflected in the rest of her form. She still couldn't be described as solid, but there is a more mature, distinct curviness to her that she had yet to develop the last time he saw her. Watching her move before him, he recognizes the energy and fluidity that's always been a part of her. It oddly makes him miss her, though she's standing right in front of him.

Through a large, squinty-eyed yawn, she says a general, "Good morning," to everyone before heading over to the stewpot to scoop up her own breakfast, turning back around to face the room. To his left Monk can hear Chuck's indecipherable mumbling before he and the other guys recede into stony silence, not even looking at her.

Veronica is watching, taking in this scene with narrowed eyes. "I said, good morning."

Monk realizes his warning has had more impact than he intended as now no one is talking to her, even to return her greeting. When her eyes move to him, he finds some much-needed mettle and gives her a curt nod that could either be politeness from a stranger, or an acknowledgement if she's figured him out.

_You tell me, Mars._

She picks his table to settle at, directly across from him. Desperate to convey that he is unaffected by her proximity, he takes a bite of his meal, but it sticks in his throat like paste and he has to work to get it down.

"Monk, right?" Her brow is furrowed as she cocks her head and looks at him.

The soft cereal he just swallowed turns into a hard-boiled egg in his gullet, and he nods his head, studying his gruel instead of meeting her gaze. His throat aches with the effort to try and not cough.

_If this means I'm in the clear, great. But if you're fucking with me, it's so not funny._

"Look, Carlos explained that the deck is kind of your territory, and I wanted to say I'm sorry for intruding."

He finally manages to work his throat clear without making any noise. Daring to move his gaze up, giving her only a reflective surface to look at, he gauges her intentions. There's no sign of that mischievous, up-to-evil expression he loved and loathed in equal measure. She appears genuinely contrite, her brows brought together in apology, her spoon making circles in her bowl as she waits for his answer.

He allows his breath to leave him in measured amounts, shrugs his shoulders and pulls the corner of his mouth to the side in a 'whatever' gesture.

_Keep your apology. I owe you an even bigger one for not being able to ask why you were crying._

One of the men at the other table, George, decides to be helpful. "He can't answer you. He's a mute."

_Nice, George. 'A' mute, like I'm some different species._

Veronica's eyes never leave his face as she studies him, but answers George. "Carlos explained he can't talk, but he did answer me." She reaches her right hand out to Monk at the same time he notices the ring on her left. "Special Agent Veronica Mars-Zare."

_Married. Veronica Mars is married. She moved on, just like you hoped she would. At least her name isn't Piznarski. Or Navarro. Or Kane. Or any other horrific possibility you've run through your brain over the past decade-plus._

He tries to tell himself that the thought of her being married doesn't affect him, doesn't break his heart even a little. Instead, he has to admit it's a bit shattering to see this evidence that she's found another man to build a life with, just as she should have; just as he's found with Eva.

Unfortunately, the snarkastic commentator that used to entertain the masses has turned on him, resigned to living in his head and having an opinion on his every errant thought. Monk hasn't gone so far as to name the bastard, but imagines him as a tattered volleyball with a bloody handprint for a face. If only he could pull it out of his head and pitch it in the ocean he might find some peace, but until then…

_Oh, so you actually wanted her to spend her life pining for you? Nice of you to finally admit it._

_Shut up._

He looks at the hand; he doesn't want to touch her, and he's never wanted anything more in his life. But to refuse would be conspicuous. He can't afford to be conspicuous.

Their hands meet, and she squeezes his firmly. He can't return the grip; all of his strength is going into making sure he doesn't tremble. He gives himself over to her as she pumps their hands up and down twice, then releases his to pick up her spoon. Pulling his own back, he realizes his palm is tingling. It doesn't seem possible she could still have the effect of bringing all his nerve endings to the surface with a single touch, but she does. And her hands are still cold.

The room is silent for another couple of minutes as they eat, and then Veronica leans forward, toward him. Her look is conspiratorial and impish as she raises an eyebrow and lifts the corner of her lip, whispering across the table so only he can hear. "It is way too tense in here. Think you can get someone to tell a dirty joke? Loosen things up?"

He shouldn't do it; he's not sure how she'll take it coming from a seemingly complete stranger. It's also not on his agenda for making himself invisible and forgettable to her, but he can't exactly ignore her either. Moving his shoulder to block the view of his hands from the other table, he makes the 'okay' gesture with one, and shoves the pointer finger of the other through the circle.

She lets out a quick bark of laughter, then slaps her hand over her mouth. He does the same - lifting his elbow to the table and covering his smile with his palm, unable to contain the joy he feels at this small exchange.

_Damn, Veronica, I think I've missed that more than anything._

They both go back to eating, the way polite strangers sharing a table do, and he's sad to see the smile fade as the moment of humor ends.

_Now what, Monk? She's got your name, your evening routine, and you've made her laugh. You're in her sights so you better make damn sure you don't do anything Logan-like._

_What the hell does that even mean?_

_Remember when Eva said that, the way you move, she's always expecting you to break out into a dance? When you get up from the table you better step like you have magnetic shoes and the floor is made of metal._

Before either he or Veronica is halfway through breakfast, a strange man walks in. Tall, mid-forties, with sandy blonde hair and a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up. He's dressed as casually as Veronica, in jeans and a sweatshirt from the Copa America that took place in Chile a couple of years prior. His "morning" is returned by the other men, making Veronica's eyes narrow suspiciously at them. Monk has to pull the inside edge of his top lip between his teeth to keep it from turning up.

_Hey, I used to know that girl._

The man focuses on her and gives a wide smile. "Hey, Veronica."

Veronica nods her head and smiles wanly back, holding it only until the man turns around to get his own food. She's just across the table from Monk, but her grumbling whisper is low enough that he barely catches it before she dives back into her food. "Wonderful. Breakfast with Officer Friendly."

The guy helps himself, filling a bowl while looking at ease in the shabby room, and comes over to join Veronica and Monk at their table. He immediately puts out a hand and flashes an interested, genuine-seeming smile.

Monk shakes it, trying to figure out why Veronica doesn't seem happier to see this guy. He appears normal, and perfectly nice. Which is apparently the problem, given her 'Officer Friendly' comment.

"Special Agent Trevor Petturi. I thought I met everyone at dinner last night?"

_Maybe I can get the point across myself. Or, at the very least save George having to explain me so eloquently again._

Monk puts down his spoon and quickly fingerspells, "Wasn't hungry." He'd thought about learning sign language, but figured if he was going to do that, he might as well speak. Fingerspelling is on par with writing – enough to be able to communicate but not to invite lengthy conversation.

He almost feels bad as the guy blushes, his smile spreading even wider as if he can pretend away the awkward moment. "Sorry, I didn't understand that."

_Good. That makes it easier. _

Monk just shrugs, used to few people being fluent in even this abbreviated form of sign. Veronica's face doesn't show any more comprehension than the other fed's, so that's one more thing he knows about her.

Unfortunately she doesn't have the luxury of playing mute to her co-worker and becomes the unwilling focus of his attention. Petturi apparently doesn't know how to just sit and be quiet for a minute, or take a hint.

"So, Veronica. I was looking for you after dinner. I thought we might exchange war stories, get to know each other."

"I was tired. I went to bed." Her tone and the way she refuses to give the guy eye contact practically broadcasts her disinterest.

_No. You needed to be alone because you were upset. Fuck, Veronica. Why were you crying?_

He hates that he'll never know the answer to that, and a thousand other questions he has about her. Just because she seems fine right now doesn't signify; she's too good at compartmentalizing. As Logan he might be able to get her to talk, but as Monk he doesn't have a chance. Resignation forms a brick in his gut that sits heavily.

"Yeah, that was a hell of a day yesterday." Petturi shakes his head, schooling his face into an affected, mournful expression. "That's the kind of thing you hope to never see in your whole career. You handled it like a pro, though."

Monk watches as Veronica's eyes squint almost imperceptibly and her mouth tightens around the spoon in her mouth, drawing out the bite she's taking a fraction longer than necessary.

_Hmmm. I didn't think it was possible to see someone's eyes strain to _not _roll. Careful Mrs. Mars-Zare, you might pull a muscle._

While Petturi prattles on, Monk rolls her hyphenated name around in his mind a few times, trying to get used to it. He wonders if Mr. Zare is anything like the Logan he was. Or if he's a nice guy, like she usually went for whenever they broke up.

_Even if he's perfect for her, I reserve the right to hate him. Just a little. Just because he's the one responsible for some of the laugh lines that are starting to appear on her face._

Veronica finds a place to interrupt Petturi's one-man show of praise. "It's really not that new to me. I worked violent crimes for a few years, including a couple of serial killer cases."

"Oh. Then I guess it works out that you caught this duty. I've only seen a few bodies before and yesterday..." A perceptible shudder runs through the man and Monk can see Veronica's face soften in sympathy.

She rolls her shoulders, as if trying to dislodge a weight. "Luckily yesterday was not the norm. I'm glad I'm free of the whole thing once we hit L.A. How did you get the assignment?"

"I've been down here for three years, but was recently given my orders to go home. I had a flight booked for tomorrow so I was handy; I just had to accelerate my leaving a little."

"What kind of cases were you working in Chile?" Veronica's voice sounds polite, and she's staring down at her bowl as she asks the question, conveying her question is prompted more from obligation than interest. At least that's the way Monk reads it, based on how well he used to know her.

Petturi gives an eager smile, apparently not noticing how little she cares about his answer. "Drugs, and not really cases to be solved. More trying to get on the inside as much as possible to suss out the channels of trade with the U.S. It's big business."

_Really. Drug trade between the U.S. and South America? I think this guy might be onto something._

Apparently feeling she'd pushed rudeness as far as was allowed, Veronica looks at Petturi and gives him a semi-sincere smile. "No offense, but I would have thought they would assign someone a little more…"

Petturi laughs and gives a wry grin, "Ethnic?"

Veronica nods. "Unless you were playing the tourist card to get the low level dealers, or posing as an American drug lord?"

"No. My target was a cartel headed up by one Franz Hitzig." At her confused expression Petturi laughs and his tone turns slightly patronizing. "Remember your history Veronica. After the Second World War lots of Nazi expatriates fled to South America to escape prosecution for war crimes. They brought their families and many never left."

Veronica slowly nods her understanding. "I actually remember reading something about that. I just didn't know any of them went into the drug trade. I guess it makes as much sense as anything else. Did you make much headway?"

"Some." Petturi shoots a pointed look at the men at the other table. "Nothing that can make its way out of a classified file yet, though."

Veronica gives Monk a glance, then picks up her food and starts eating again. Her change of subject is obviously for his benefit. "I bet you're glad to leave that all behind and go home. It must have been hard, to be gone so long."

A hint of bitterness pierces Petturi's benign expression before his face falls down into a mournful look. "I'm divorced actually, and my kids…well you know how teenagers are. It's cooler to say your dad is an FBI agent in another country than to have him doling out groundings and advice in person."

Veronica's brows pull together in a look of contrition, an expression Monk has only a passing familiarity with on her face. "Sorry, I didn't realize you had kids. I just meant you must miss living in America."

Trevor's grin is self-effacing, as if embarrassed that he delved into something so personal with a stranger. "Oh. Yeah, sometimes. Chile grew on me though, and the work was exciting."

They keep eating robotically, Monk ignoring their third party, and Veronica giving just enough grunts and "um-hmms" to make it appear she's listening to a recounting of the guy's escapades. As they finish their breakfast, Monk is even more determined to find a way to keep his distance over the next few days. His exchanges with Veronica have so far have been better, and more, than he would have dared hope for.

Unfortunately, she follows him as he walks intentionally heavy to put his dishes in the bus bucket, and heads out the door. Her voice makes him pause as his feet hit the lowest rung of the stairs that will take him up a level.

"Monk? I need to see where the people from _The Lady Lane_ are stored. I was told you were the one to ask since the captain is a little busy driving this monster. He doesn't have a liberal policy about letting anyone use the keys."

It throws him every time his false name falls from her lips. Whenever he's imagined her, she's saying his real name.

_Be thankful she's not, jackwad. Just give her what she wants, then she'll leave you alone._

_What if I don't want her to leave me alone?_

_Fine. Open your mouth and say her name._

Monk clamps his lips shut, nods and heads in the opposite direction, to below deck, motioning her to follow. The refrigerator bay is accessible through a large loading door in the side of the ship, but there is a smaller one for when they need to get into it while they are at sea. It's located midway on the starboard side; a square room on the deck that opens directly onto a flight of stairs

Heading down the stairs first, she is right above him, descending at almost the same pace. He reaches out a hand to guide her the last few steps and down the hallway, but pulls back when his brain catches up to his habits. She doesn't notice.

Using his key, he unlocks the cooler door and leads her in, turning on the light. He could wait outside in the hall but he's curious what she's up to, as well as feeling oddly protective.

_Because you think the dead are going to rise?_

_Stranger things have happened with her._

Seeing the lines of body bags is creepy enough, but when Veronica walks up and down the room eyeing them all, he wonders what she's looking for. The space is a long rectangle, about thirty feet long by twenty feet wide, taking up the entire bottom-front half of the ship. The corpses are lined up evenly in three long rows, the first row being one shorter than the others. There is about a foot of walking space on each side.

Apparently satisfied, she rounds back toward the door and unzips the bag closest to him. She pulls a pair of purple gloves out of her back pocket and it's all he can do not to look away. She's calm as she lifts out the forearm of the dead person, a woman based on the painted nails and three audacious rings on her fingers. He blanches as Veronica lightly presses the skin of the arms, and then something in the middle of the bag, and is glad for the beard and sunglasses that hide his expression from her.

_I know she said she worked homicide, but when did she turn into Temperance Brennan? _

Zipping the bag and standing up, she removes the gloves and shoves her hands in the center pocket of her hoodie. She turns to him with a grimace. "Not sure if I'll ever get used to that. I helped out in the coroner's department for three months as part of my training, so I know how to make sure they're being stored at the proper temperature, but I never really got the knack of looking at them as evidence instead of people."

He nods, because there is nothing else he can do, and holds open the door so she can exit the room. Standing less than a foot apart in the low-lit hallway together, the moment is given an intimacy he never thought he'd feel with her again. It's heady and unwelcome, since it just seems to waken his appetite for more. Oblivious, she keeps her hands in her pocket and looks up at him after he locks the door.

"We're heading into warmer weather. Do you usually have to adjust the cooler's temperature to account for it?"

_Clever girl. But no surprise there. _He nods at her, and holds up five fingers, turning the hand to waver it in the air, then holds up all ten.

"Five to ten degrees?" She seems surprised by the huge variance when he nods, but she doesn't know how old their equipment is, or how fickle.

"Then I think we should adjust it, just another two degrees cooler for now. Ideally they should be stored between two and four degrees Celsius, but I know it's a little hard to hit that mark exactly in a large unit like this. I think I should check them a couple times a day to make sure they are cold enough that it slows decomp, but that they aren't freezing."

Again he nods, and ponders who he can push this escort task off on to. He's not sure another hallway moment with her is the best thing for his psyche.

_I'll get Javier to do it. He's the only one with keys to the refrigerator bays besides Diego and me, and Diego will have my ass if I lend anyone my keys. Can't say I blame him after that whole 'who ate half the cheesecakes we were supposed to deliver' incident._

"What are you up to next?"

He points above and mimes using a steering wheel. He, Diego and Carlos worked out their driving shifts, based on their preferred sleep schedules. Diego is doing midnight to eight, Monk eight to four, and Carlos will finish the day with the swing shift of four to midnight.

She nods and follows him above deck, shoving her hands in the pocket of her hoody again once her feet hit the boards. "Thanks."

He tilts his head in a slight bow, y_ou're welcome,_ then climbs the stairs toward the helm, being sure not to look behind him.

* * *

Diego is kicking back when he walks into the wheelhouse, his face more wrinkled than usual and the beginnings of shadows under his eyes. He rolls his head to look at Monk, then checks his watch. "You're early, hombre. Couldn't sleep? Me either; I tried to catch a nap after dinner, but no luck. Not after being on that fucking ghost ship."

Monk grabs his pad and paper out of the drawer where he stashes them, and writes out a quick note. 'Did you find out what happened to those people?'

Shaking his head, Diego hands him back the pad. "Not much. That agent guy just told us all that it wasn't a sickness, so we didn't have to worry about contagions. So I guess that just leaves murder, huh? God there are so many bodies…" He runs his hand from his forehead and down one cheek and he lets out a huge yawn.

'Go to bed. I don't mind a little extra time behind the wheel.'

"Yeah I might. Did you get ahold of Eva?"

'Emailed her before we got to the yacht. She said to tell you she hates you.'

Diego laughs as he reads this. "You don't have any kids sucking away every dime you make. Use the extra money you're getting paid to buy her something nice so she'll forgive me."

_Nice try, but no dice. Eva cares even less about money than Veronica. _

_So are you going to punctuate every thought with Veronica from now on?_

_Probably. _

_Oh, this is going to be fun. _

Diego relinquishes his seat and catches him up on their course plan. "I'll tell the guys to clean the heads and main deck before I hit the sack. Check up on their work when Carlos takes over, eh?"

The next hour and a half is spent with one percent of his brain keeping them on course, and the other ninety-nine percent thinking of Veronica. Unfortunately, he's afraid this is going to become the norm for a while. Sure he'd never stopped loving her, but he thought he'd finally reached a point of perspective about it, like he had Lilly.

_So, you're saying if it was Lilly here instead of Veronica, it would screw with your head just as much?_

_Um, more, considering she's been dead sixteen years. _

_Are we going to argue semantics, or are you going to admit you never really got over Veronica?_

… _Fuck._

No, he'd never entirely gotten over her, and hadn't tried to convince himself otherwise. Maybe he could have if she'd just been a girl he loved once, instead of the last person in his life he considered family. However, though it took years and happened by degrees, she no longer dominated his every thought.

He was able to go days without her name surfacing in his mind. He could read a book or watch a movie without wondering what she thought of it. He had gotten to a place where not everything reminded him of her, in some way.

Veronica's memory was most distant when he was with Eva; the two women were different enough there wasn't any point in comparing. Eva was so imposing both in physicality and personality that she had long since taken over as the woman in his life; the memory of a girl long gone just didn't stand a chance next to her.

Ok, when he tosses off he usually reaches the point when he can't control his fantasies and Veronica makes an appearance. To hear the other guys talk, an ex-girlfriend is the least disturbing thing that could be going through his head at that moment, so he's sure it doesn't mean anything.

_Aw, you're still telling yourself that lie. That's almost adorable._

_Do the words frontal lobe lobotomy mean anything to you?_

_…_

Unfortunately, Veronica's brief reappearance in his life will probably mean a setback to when he couldn't get her out of his head, no matter what he tried. It's a complication that is exhausting and infuriating, but, _damn it,_ a little exciting as well.

It's uncountable, the number of times he's wondered about her. Where she's living, what she's doing with her life, if she's happy. If she has the same friends, and the same fire that got her through the hard times. However, having just a fraction of those questions answered raises a thousand new ones.

What kinds of cases does she work now? What is her husband like? Does he make her happy? Does he understand how fixated she can get about a mystery? Does he appreciate the unapologetic bitch she can be when she's angry? Has he found that spot, on the back of her right thigh, that makes her crazy when it's lightly bitten?

_Shut it down, dude. This isn't helping._

It would all be so much easier if he just told her who he is. But he had his reasons, all his rationales for leaving, and nothing has changed. He has to work at it, but he convinces himself it's probably a kindness, more than anything, that he's going to let her think their story ended all those years ago.

* * *

It's just after eleven in the morning when he sees Veronica again. She's on the deck below him and headed toward the bow, no longer wearing her hoody and her hands shoved into the front pockets of her jeans. It takes him a minute to recognize the slowness of her gait; it was seldom he ever saw her walk without a purpose.

He's able to visually stalk her as she goes as far as she can, to where the two sides of the railing meet in a point. Monk grins as he sees her look around, put her feet up on each side and raise her fists in the air, holding the pose for a moment as the wind blows her hair back.

_I knew there was a girl in there somewhere. _Please_ tell me you hearted Leo all over your diary._

He can't hear her laughter from here, but he can see the amusement on her face and the way she covers her mouth with her hand as she jumps down and executes a turn, checking around again to see if anybody is watching. She neglects to look up where he and George, who is on bow watch right now, are positioned to look down on her.

Seeing no one she relaxes, turning to lean over the railing while this time resting her forearms on the top edge. She watches the water for about nine minutes before he can see the boredom set in. She lowers her chin to rest on her hand and puts her foot back, planting the toe on the deck and moving the heel back and forth idly.

This only lasts a minute before she straightens up and turns around, perusing the deck for anything interesting. She never was very good at doing nothing. His life on the ship has taught him to be a little more Zen about time, but he can see this isn't something she's learned yet. He's glad this antsy, purposeful side of her hasn't changed.

It isn't long before her eyes land on his window, and he sees her head tilt as if she's trying to figure something out. The sun is bright and he's familiar with the way the glare will make it impossible for her to see in, but he feels exposed anyway. If he knows her, and he still might, curiosity will bring her back into his sphere in about one minute. He's trapped, responsible for helming the ship until Carlos starts his shift.

As predicted, she scans the area in front of her to assess the best way to reach his nest, then makes her way toward him. He slips his sunglasses down, pulls the bill of his hat lower and slumps in his seat, as if disinterested in anything that had been going on.

_Five…four…three…two…_

"Monk?"

He rolls his head away from his window view to see her standing in the doorway. Maybe if he gives her no further acknowledgement, she'll go away. Working with this theory, he turns his head back to where it was and stares forward as if she isn't even there. But, hearing her move in behind him, he knows she hasn't changed in peskiness. He wishes for a gruff, unrecognizable voice so he can deliver a comment that will reestablish some physical distance between them. It's so fucking hard to have her be this close, and be a stranger to her.

"I've never been on a ship like this. Is it always this boring?" The teasing lilt in in her voice wants to draw a smile from him, but he can't allow it.

_There is nothing about this that I'm finding boring._

He shrugs, keeping his hands on the wheel and his eyes locked on the horizon, giving her the barest of encouragement.

She circles the wheelhouse, running a hand over the maps and instruments as if they'll mean something to her if only she touches them.

"What do you do to keep from going stark crazy?"

_Try not to think about you, or anyone else from Before. You're not making that easy right now. _

He uncrosses his arms long enough to point to the book he carried up with him, now resting on the shelf behind the wheel.

She picks it up and thumbs the tattered pages in her usual, nosy way. "I've never read McMurtry. I saw Terms of Endearment, though. He's got a good handle on the sad. Do you usually read westerns?"

If she were a stranger and he was actually the man he pretends to be, this interaction alone would make him fall for her. Most people treat him as an imbecile just because he doesn't speak, but she is talking with him like she would anybody else, and waiting for him to answer.

He still doesn't look at her, but holds up his hand, holding his thumb and forefinger slightly apart. _A bit._

"What kinds of books do you usually read?"

How is he supposed to answer that? For him, reading had always been like breathing. If he uses liquid soap to wash his hands, he can't keep his eyes from perusing the text on the back of the bottle as he scrubs. Though he's pretty sure he could figure it out without the directions.

He is fluent in Spanish, and can read it competently, but it doesn't relax him like reading in English does. Living in Chile he is limited in the books he is able to find, usually spending his first day home ordering new stacks to be shipped to him. It has occurred to him how easy it would make things if he just downloaded everything, but he loves the feeling of holding an actual book in his hands. Loves the difference in smell between an old, well-enjoyed book and one that is freshly printed. Keeping his voracious literary appetite sated, and filling the hours between ports, he has learned to be open to reading absolutely anything.

He can't ignore her. He's imagined talking to her so many times that he can't pass up the opportunity for even the slightest interaction with her, ill-advised as it is. But he didn't ask for this, and to be an asshole at this point might be more significant to her. So he chooses to answer with a pantomime. If she is insisting on staying and conversing, maybe he can cage another smile from her.

They'd watched Love Actually together years before, and there was a scene with Colin Firth and some beautiful actress whose name escapes him. Colin was an English author and she was Portuguese; she was trying to ask Colin what kind of book he was writing, but without a language in common she had to resort to pantomime.

Monk imitates her actions, fluttering his hands over his heart, snarling while wielding an imaginary knife up and down, acting like he's crying and wiping tears from his face. Between each act he holds his hands as if reading a book, hugging it to his chest, and rocking side to side. Before he can work out a fourth genre she is openly laughing.

"I get it. You just love reading." She crosses her arms and leans back, chuckling as she smiles at him. But then her face darkens and she turns to look out the window. "I used to know someone like that. He would read anything, even labels. If he spent five minutes in your house, he would know every product you used."

"_Um…Logan?"_

"_Yeah?" He looks up, distracted, from the game he queued up to play while she went to take a shower._

"_Why is your bathroom stocked with all my hair and face products?" He can see the worry in her scrunched up brow, and he laughs._

"_Relax. I didn't stalk you or anything. Last time I was at your place, I used your bathroom and noticed what you like. I thought it would be better if you didn't go home to your dad smelling like my shampoo."_

_She rolls her eyes. "He's protective but he doesn't put me through the sniff test when I walk in the door."_

_He leans back, throwing the controller to the side. "How about we don't test that theory and I get to keep my balls intact? And, by the way, a simple thank you would suffice."_

_She comes over, tightening the towel she'd wrapped around herself after she'd dried off, and leans over him. The kiss she bestows upon him is simple, almost chaste, and is accompanied by her hand cupping his jaw. _

_"Thank you," she whispers before going off to get dressed. _

He's glad her back is to him while this memory jackhammers his brain, because he thinks she's talking about him. He doesn't want to know that, after all this time, he can make her face look like that. She's not supposed to be sad about him anymore. She's not even supposed to think about him so easily anymore.

The silence that follows this is pressure filled. In any normal conversation, it would be up to him to find a way to distract her from thinking about the heavy. But he only has normal conversations with Eva.

_Eva. Damn, sweetheart. What will you say about all this?_

The answer to that question has to wait though, as it turns out Veronica being in front of him makes it hard for him to concentrate on thoughts of Eva. It turns out Veronica has her own way of dominating his attention – mainly being present.

Veronica finally works her way out of her mood and turns a curious look his way. He feels his stomach tighten at the expression because he knows it's always followed by questions.

"What's your real name, by the way? I don't even know if I should be calling you Monk."

Rather than waiting for his answer, she is casting her eyes around, looking for something. His pad of paper is stashed in a drawer, but she finds a scrap of something and a pencil lying errant on a shelf, grabbing and shoving them his way.

He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to feed her one more lie and he can't give her the truth. There's really only one way to answer. So, careful to use simple block letters, he spells out _MONK_ on the paper and hands it to her.

"Ahh. The serial killer handwriting. Nice."

At the breathy exhale he uses to pass for laughter these days, she smiles at him, driving the tiny pinprick of a thumbtack into his heart.

"And thank you."

At that he tilts his head and furrows his brow. _For what?_

She points a finger at him, donning a look of pure mischief. "You just evaded a question, making finding out your real name my mission. I was going crazy without a project. See you later."

Without waiting for a response she heads out the door and goes down the ladder.

_God, she really is the most annoying person on the planet. How the hell have I gotten through any one of the past forty-eight hundred days without talking to her?_

* * *

Monk doesn't see Veronica again before Carlos relieves him after four o'clock. Whatever she's been up to, it doesn't involve hanging out on the decks. He tells himself he's not looking for her; if he's peeking into each open doorway and scanning every inch of the boat seeking a glimpse of her, it's just because he's making sure he can avoid her.

Going down the last flight of stairs, he hears voices underneath him. It's Chuck and Connor, and he can see the hose they had been using to clean the main deck retreating as they roll it up.

"Fuck no, I don't feel sorry for them. Rich bastards like that probably had it coming." The derision is heavy in Chuck's voice.

Connor gives a small laugh. "Do you really think they deserved to die just because they have money?"

"No," Chuck scoffs, "I'm just saying they probably spent more on clothes and jewelry every year than your or I will see in our whole life. Did you see that yacht?"

"What does one have to do with the other?" Connor asks.

"I'm saying nobody gets that rich without fucking somebody over, so they probably got what they deserved. And they had it good while it lasted. Shit, I'd give up ten years of my life just to have it half as good."

Monk reaches the bottom of the stairs and leans against a post, staring at the two men. Connor turns his eyes down as if he's a little embarrassed and gets back to finishing up the job, but Chuck fixes Monk with a glare.

Leaving Connor to finish the cleanup, Chuck walks up to Monk, then sidesteps at the last moment so their shoulders slam against each other.

_I get it; you're not going to let what happened this morning slide. Bring it on Chuck. I haven't been in a fight in years but it might feel good right now._

Predictably for an asshole of Chuck's caliber, he keeps walking, letting the shoulder slam hover as impotent threat. For a second, Monk imagines how satisfying it would be to start something himself; use Chuck's bulbous gut as a punching bag and release all the tension that's been tightening his own belly since the night before.

_You're worried about Veronica recognizing your walk and you're going to chance having her watch you fight? _

_But…_

_No._

Connor is making a point of not meeting his eyes, as if he was responsible for Chuck's bigotry against the wealthy. Monk ignores him, knowing he was just a bystander. Chuck doesn't need encouragement to be an asshole.

Just as Monk is about to turn the corner and head to his berth, he hears Veronica's voice and stills his feet. He knows he should take advantage of her distraction to escape, but can't keep himself from listening to the chirpy, friendly tone of her voice.

"Which one is it? …No, I remember the green one…I don't know. Maybe. We'll have to talk about it…That we don't have to talk about. The answer is no... Ok, you get hilarity points for that… I'll be home in a few days …I love you, kiddo… Hey! I said I love you."

Monk's exhale of breath bypasses his mouth, instead filling his brain and making his head feel light. All the times he's thought of her, he's never imagined her as a mother. However, having seen the woman she's grown into, and remembering how fiercely she protected anyone she considered hers, he knows the image is unassailable, completely right.

_God, she would be an amazing mom. Good luck to her kid if it tries to get away with anything, though. _

The thought makes him smile, an expression she stumbles across when she whips around the corner and runs right into his chest. Instinctually, he reaches out and grabs her upper arms, keeping her from falling back. She grabs onto his forearms, and laughs up at him. He can't focus on the way the laughter lights up her face though, distracted as he is by the feel of her touch on his skin.

Finally on balance, they let each other go and he hides his reluctance in the act, stepping back to reestablish some distance between them.

"Sorry. I was on the phone before and not paying attention to where I was walking. But I'm actually glad it was you I ran into."

He cocks his head at her in question.

Her playful smirk is so right on her face. "Two reasons. One is that you're about the best conversationalist on this crew."

He can't keep back the smile that comes out, chipped-tooth, redneck jokes be damned. Apparently news has spread about what set him off in mess this morning, so the men are being extra careful around Veronica. _I really don't have a problem with that._ When she doesn't speak again he leans his head to the side and holds up two fingers.

"The second is that I found out your real name-ish."

He takes a step to put his back against the wall, tucking one hand in his pocket and using the other to motion out from his abdomen. _Go ahead._

"Malachy, though nobody could seem to agree if your last name is French or Lynch. Given the Irishness of Malachy, I'm going with Lynch." She is waggling her shoulders slightly side to side, lifting her eyebrows and biting her lower lip in a way that is teasing, and self-proud, and causes his balls to twitch in response.

_Great. Well, we know that still works for me._

He gives an inward groan and an outward half-bow, as you would give out of respect to royalty.

"But you should hear the rumors that fly about you. Everything from an actual monk," she puts a hand at the side of her mouth to fake-cover her whisper, "—I'm a little worried about the guy who told me that, by the way – to a spy. There's even talk of you having a harem. You're an enigma to these guys."

If he weren't wearing sunglasses she would see him roll his eyes, but she interprets his scoffing chuff of breath accurately and rolls her own, acknowledging the ridiculous of all three theories.

"Sadly, I've learned that the more exotic the cover, the more boring the story. My guess is you have a little house somewhere that is wall-to-wall books, a bed, and one lonely, leather chair."

_Mmmm, bingo on the house, bed, and books, but it's two wicker chairs and a Chilean Goddess._ _Maybe you're losing your touch. _

"How did I do?"

He holds up a flat hand and wavers it in the air. _So-so. _He can tell she's about to dig deeper. A game of twenty questions could quickly turn into fifty with her running the show. Making a fist, leaving out his thumb and pinky, he holds his hand up to his cheek.

She looks at him in confusion for a moment, then pulls a satellite phone out of her back pocket and starts tossing it between her hands. "Oh, yeah. I was talking to my son. I've been gone more than a week now and miss him like you would an appendage. I kind of go crazy if I can't at least talk to him each day when I'm on assignment."

A son. He wonders if the kid is blond, like her. If those azure blue eyes are replicated in a miniature face. If he's short.

Reaching out a finger, he points at her, then fingerspells V-E-R-O-N-I-C-A. Making sure she is still watching, he points to himself and fingerspells M-O-N-K. Though not fluent at even fingerspelling, she may know enough letters to get the intent.

"His name?" _Nod. "_Gaius."

He drops his head forward in a quick motion, bringing it to an abrupt stop about halfway down so it bobs, indicating surprise.

_No way in hell _she_ picked that name._

She snorts and crosses her arms, tucking the phone in the crook of her elbow. "Yeah, it's weird, I know. Life lesson: decide on your baby's name _before_ you suffer fourteen hours of labor and give naming power to the guy that held your hand through it all."

He knows the appropriate response is to grin at that, but he can't. He wanted her to be happy, but conversely hates the thought of another guy so much as holding her hand, and he loathes the intimacy she's just implied. Her being happy with someone else only works in the abstract.

Instead he focuses on her son, using his arms to indicate holding a baby, then stoops over, holding his hand at knee level, then waist level, before making a third stop at his chest.

"How old is Gai?"

At his nod, she squints her eyes, giving a proud, amused smile.

"Seven, going on eighty, going on twelve. His dad nicknamed him 'Old Gai' because he's such a weird mix of little kid and old man. He'll talk your ear off about some new Lego he wants, but won't wear anything but cardigans and khakis, and loves jazz and big band music. One second he's mixing up the words croquet and crochet, and the next he's telling me I should start my own sarcasm society. He's as weird as his name."

Watching her as she talks about her son, it takes him a minute to recognize her expression and body language. Her face seems lit up from the inside, her smile is soft, and toothy, and she hugs herself a bit, as if trying to hold in the happiness. He remembers her this way, long ago. It's a look that highlights her beauty so fetchingly, he's sure he couldn't look away even if he tried. And he has no intention of trying.

_Why, Veronica Mars, I do believe you're in love. _

When he'd known her before, she wouldn't have told a stranger anything about her personal life. Whether it's because she's talking about her kid, or because her kid has helped her finally learn to let go of some of that armor she surrounded herself with years ago, he's enjoying this more open Veronica.

_Actually, I _remember _this Veronica. She was like this before Lilly was killed._

Luckily his inner critic is silent for once, though it might be getting smothered by the guilt that is filling him at the moment. Veronica didn't become closed off after Lilly was killed. She shut down after he led a smear campaign that resulted in her being ostracized, then raped.

She forgave him for his part in those events years ago, and he even thought he'd forgiven himself. Hadn't he tried to make it up to her? Even if he failed, he had tried. But he hadn't done this. That she could talk to a stranger with such artlessness was also likely attributed to the man whose ring she's wearing, and whose son she's still smiling over. He doesn't want to, but he hates Mr. Zare just a little less for it.

She grows a little self-conscious under his stare, wincing and chewing the inside of her lower lip. "Sorry. That was a really long answer to a really basic question. I kind of dork out when I talk about him."

He smiles a bit and lets out a silent, one-note laugh, the air leaving his nose in a gust while his stomach gives a spasm, and accepts the sheepish grin she gives in return.

Monk pushes away the guilt, thinking maybe his leaving all those years ago was the best thing he could have done for her. Maybe he'd finally gotten it right.

* * *

**A/N:** I wasn't sure how much interest a mute Logan and a ship full of corpses would garner so you all thrilled me with your reviews, follows, and favorites. Thank you, thank you. Please keep them coming! Would it be oversell if I wore a t-shirt that said will write for reviews?

**A/N:** Thank you to the nevertothethird for her brilliant beta skills. Again. All mistakes or goofiness are my responsibility entirely. She does her best, but sometimes I still stumble.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Enough

Thinking of Veronica happy and in love with her kid, Monk wonders about her life with her husband for the five-millionth time that morning. Holding up one finger, he mimes the baby gesture again, followed by two fingers and the baby gesture another time.

Veronica shakes her head. "No, just the one kid. What about you? Like I said, my sources were useless."

_Um, NO. Even if I had a kid, it wouldn't be allowed within a light year of this crew. Chuck's loathsomeness is so pervasive it might actually be catching._

He shakes his head and holds his left hand up, pointing to the ringless fourth finger .

She snorts and gives him a half-smile. "Like that's a requirement."

The silence that follows is awkward. He has so many questions about her life, but since they are strangers he can't ask them. After a moment of foot shuffling and tentative smiles, he takes a step to the right to walk around her when her hand lands on his arm.

"Malachy?"

Hearing her speak his borrowed name isn't the same as when she used to call him by his real one, though it's much more satisfying than 'Monk'. But, out of habit, he can't bring himself to give into her that easily. Regardless if they were lovers or bitter enemies, they rarely had a conversation that didn't include some kind of bait or tease. So he lowers his sunglasses, not enough to expose his eyes, but in a way that punctuates his crossed arms as he looks down at her.

She removes her hand from his arm and gives him that smartass, self-satisfied smile he always loved; the one that shows all her teeth but lifts up only the left side of her mouth. "Hey, getting your name was hard work. In my book, that means that now I get to use it."

"_Jackass." Veronica's arms are crossed, and her feet are precisely a shoulder's width apart as she glares up at him._

_Logan looks at her, smiling in a way he's sure is playful and starts sidling toward her. She reminds him of a hissing kitten at the moment and he can't help egging her on – taunting her when she's in a quasi-bad mood is one of his favorite forms of foreplay. "See, you're saying 'jackass', but I'm hearing 'you're adorable'."_

"_Yeah, because you know how adorable I think it is when you flirt with our waitress all through dinner."_

_Registering the bitterness in her accusation, he realizes she's not overplaying this for effect; she is demanding him to either apologize, or defend himself. But neither is warranted since he didn't do anything wrong. His feet stop by the sofa, keeping a three foot distance between them. He's been looking forward to this date all week and is irritated she's found a reason to ruin it._

"_Veronica, I can manage to be polite to the opposite sex without it being a come-on. It's not my fault if you can't tell the difference." He removes the suit jacket he's wearing and throws it on the couch, then loosens and yanks the tie over his head, letting it drop to the floor. When he unbuttons his sleeves and starts rolling them up, he realizes he's preparing as if for a fight and stops himself. _

"_Saying her name no less than five times while she was serving us. Winking when she asked if there was anything else we needed. That's not flirting?" Now he can see tears pooling in her eyes, and this finally gets through the buzz of the alcohol. She's not just angry, she's hurt. _

_He softens his tone a bit, the affront he felt at being charged for something he didn't do fading away. "My mom taught me to make a point of finding out the names of wait staff and using them. You'd be amazed at what a difference it can make in the service. And you were only seeing half my face, so you're no judge if it was winking or blinking." He chances moving in closer to her and is gratified when she doesn't back away._

"_As far as I'm concerned you were the only woman in that restaurant tonight." He takes two steps closer and smiles when her arms drop to her sides. "Plus, there is a litmus test to whether or not I'm flirting. Since she neither slipped me her phone number, nor dropped her underwear in my lap, I passed."_

_Veronica grunts, but there is a twitch of a smile at the edges of her own lips. "I said you flirted. I didn't say she fell for it."_

_He moves in the final distance between them and looks into her eyes, challenging her to dispute him. "C'mon, Mars. You know one really isn't possible without the other."_

_At that she laughs and pushes his chest, causing him to stumble on his cognac-affected feet. "Like I said: Jackass. It's your name now. You better get used to it."_

He's done so well at cataloging and filing all these memories, giving them a replay only when he allows it. Something about having her in front of him has destroyed the control he has maintained over his mind all this time.

"So…Malachy," she smiles, flaunting her use of the name and daring him to challenge her. When he just tilts his head at her in answer, her smile grows, turning into one of victory. "Now that my project is done, I'm bored as hell. Any chance I can borrow a book?"

He considers offering her the tome he's still carrying around from earlier, but knows her well enough to realize that she'd probably prefer something with a few less cows . He turns and waves his hand, indicating she should follow him.

Turning the corner to go to his room, he waits while she opens the door to the berth next to his and throws her phone in, answering his question from the night before about which room is hers.

_And that information has no value for you, does it?_

_um…_

_I didn't think so._

His room is the last door on the starboard side, farthest toward the bow, and he stands aside after he opens it, allowing her to go in first. It's an odd feeling, having her actually exist within these four walls. He's imagined her showing up at his house, even running into her in the various cities he's visited, but this room seemed lowest on the list of reunion possibilities.

It's a tiny space, only nine by seven feet, completely taken up with his elevated bunk, a small, built-in, chest of drawers, and crates of books shoved under the bed. The crates keep them from scattering when the boat pitches, and also makes them easier for unloading whenever he gets a break at home.

There is a light, but it's concentrated primarily over his bunk and the sun is just at the right height to cause the deck above him to let in more shadows than shine from the open door. Crouching over the crates he pulls out, he has to take the risk of removing his sunglasses long enough to search for a book in the dim light. He's counting on her being too nosy to notice.

While he rummages she turns her focus to the walls. They are a riot of color, lined with the oil pastels Eva has created and ordered him to hang. Eva has visited the ship only once, following a fight they'd had, and after they made up she had lain in his bunk, stared at the austere walls, and informed him she was going to add color to his life.

From his limited experience touring galleries with his mother, Eva is a decently talented artist. The past few years she has even made a fair living selling at a few local galleries. She favors a strong color pallet and sticks to pictures of cityscapes, buildings, and nature. None of the drawings feature people, and all are done from the perspective of a disinterested observer. They are especially popular with tourists who want to take home a piece of Chile.

Veronica has honed in on his favorite, a replica of the house he shares with Eva. Every detail has been rendered, from the swing on the porch to the sandals discarded by the front door.

She half-turns to him, giving a distracted smile. "Tell me that place has a hammock and I am so there."

_In the middle of the living room. Who needs a couch?_

He sees her move on, pausing at a whimsical, faded postcard of a child's toy that's been hanging in here longer than the pictures. His hands pause over the books, and from her profile he can see her smile while she looks at it and leans in for a closer study.

"I had nesting dolls when I was a kid. I thought they were like the best secrets, the kinds that come in many layers."

_There's a secret right in front of you. If you knew, somehow I doubt it would make you would smile like that._

When she moves on to study another of Eva's paintings, he remembers his errand and continues searching through the crates, coming up with two books he knows she'll love. One is a dark, twisted, and hilarious novel by Jane Shapiro about a catastrophic marriage. The other is the English translation of a French tale full of romance and mystery: a story about childhood friends who became lovers, and were then separated by circumstance. When the protagonist, Mathilde, starts to question what she understood to be true about her lover, she spends years on a quest for answers.

Thinking through the two plots he tosses the Sebastien Japrisot novel back in the box and hands her the Jane Shapiro one.

_Besides, I've never given her a love story with a happy ending before. Why start now? _

She doesn't immediately take it, eyeing the cover dubiously. "'The Dangerous Husband'? What kind of book is it?"

_How do I get you to understand that it's a story about a horrible marriage? A marriage that starts out ideal but then heads in an unexpectedly awful and hilarious direction?_

His conclusion is that you don't. Some books just have to be read on faith. So he holds it out to her and places his hand over his heart, giving her his best pleading expression. He's about to raise his eyebrows to add to the effect, but stops. He remembers a time, years before, when she had told him to shut up because he was interrupting a conversation she was having with his eyebrows.

Her mouth skews to the side and she squints one eye, perusing the book cover skeptically. "Trust you?" At his nod she blows an unrefined shot of air out her nose. "Not really my forte, but I'll give the book a shot. Thanks."

As Veronica grabs the book, she looks directly up at him.

Monk jolts, realizing his sunglasses are still off and it's the first time their eyes have really made contact. Hers have suddenly gone from casual and relaxed to…spastic. They are darting from left to right and back again without wavering from his. Her sharp intake of breath makes him want to slam his glasses back over his face, but to do so would be an admission of guilt - a confirmation of exactly what she's thinking.

Her voice is shaking as she stares up at him, pressing the book between her hands. "Thanks. I should have it back to you soon. I…thanks." In a rare show of nervousness she scoots around him and darts out the open door.

_Fuck. _

* * *

Monk waits a little while for her to return, pacing the room and resisting the urge to pound his head against the wall for his own stupidity. When she doesn't come back, and he reaches the limit of how many times he can walk the tiny space, he leaves to search for Javier. She'll need to check the cooler and her stiffs again, and shouldn't be forced to be alone with him if she's not ready.

_Take your time, Veronica. I'm not sure I'm ready yet, either._

Javier is in the kitchen, looking harried as he finishes his dinner preparations. There are several pans in the sink and on the stove, and the place is redolent with the smell of green peppers. If Monk didn't know Javier, he'd think the room held the promise of a good meal, well prepared.

"Hey! Come to lend a hand?" Javier's distracted glance tells him it wouldn't be welcome despite the question. He prefers to stress out on his own, and anyone else in the kitchen with him just makes him nervous. The results are more disastrous than usual.

Monk hands him the paper he'd pre-written, careful to keep his reference to Veronica generic. 'The fed lady asked if someone could let her into the cooler before dinner. I need you to do it.'

Javier reads the note, but refuses to make eye contact as he hands it back and answers, "I would, hermano, but I kinda, um, lost my keys again. I had them last night, but this morning I couldn't find them."

Monk closes his eyes and searches for patience. Unfortunately Javier has a habit of losing his keys, leaving Monk to cover for him until they are found some random place like the head, the refrigerator or, most memorably, in a pot of soup. Diego only knows about two instances and warned Javier that if it happens again, he's out of a job.

_Maybe that would be a blessing, while I still have a functioning colon._

He pulls the golf pencil out of his back pocket and writes. 'I'll loan you mine, but if you lose them I swear the days of walking the plank are coming back."

With an abashed grin Javier takes the keys. "Sure, sure. I'll have them back to you at dinner."

Telling himself it's more for her sake than his own, Monk finds ways to avoid Veronica, trying to be places on the ship that she isn't. He goes down to the engine room to make sure everything is operating well, then to the tiny weight room next to Diego's berth in the hopes that a workout will calm him a little. After, he hangs out in the wheelhouse with Carlos for a while, spreading a chess board out on the counter so Carlos can reach it without taking his hands off the wheel.

When he's soundly trounced twice, he resigns himself to his fate and goes back to his room. It's a ship. She'll be able to find him if she wants to; getting this over with would almost be preferable to carrying around this knot of dread in his stomach any longer.

He doesn't see her again until seven, when dinner time is almost over. Until he was driven out by hunger and impatience, he stared at his door, waiting for her to come back and launch her accusations. Part of him hoped she would; the part that had never been able to stop loving her, no matter how much easier it would have made his life.

On his way to the mess he passes Louis and Vicente trying to teach Trevor Petturi how to play shuffleboard, so he hopes he'll be eating alone. He's not in the mood for company. However, from the entryway, he can see Veronica is sitting by herself at the middle table, reading and picking at the remains of a plate of enchiladas. Based on the number of dishes in the bus, and the amount of food left, he's the last one to eat.

_Put one foot in front of the other  
And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor._

Monk pauses outside the door, wasting a moment to remember which claymation Christmas movie the tune came from. He's not being a coward, he's just sure he's close to remembering and is afraid if he moves from this spot, it will bug him the rest of the night. As usual, he can't just give himself a moment of peace - his inner critic has to have his say.

_Sure. That's what you're afraid of. _

'_Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'? 'Frosty the Snowman'?_

_It was 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town'. Any more mysteries of the world you need to solve before you face this?_

George, Winston and Javier are playing cribbage at the far table, so Monk takes his food and sits at the third, unoccupied one. Javier takes a moment to come over and shake his hand, pressing the keys into his palm covertly so the other guys don't see.

The enchiladas, the best of Javier's limited and badly executed repertoire, have the taste and consistency of unbuttered hominy in his mouth. It's hard to tell if that's actually due to Javier's cooking this time; stress always kills his taste buds. His entire focus is on Veronica, intensely reading her book to his left. The few short hairs on the back of his neck rise at her proximity, but she seems so engrossed in the novel she hasn't even noticed his presence.

Monk gets through most of his meal without garnering her attention, until she finally looks up from the book. Her plate is now practically clean and she glances behind her at the buffet, frowning when she sees there aren't any enchiladas left.

_Something tells me you're not going to be satisfied by anything tonight._

Turning back, her gaze falls on him and he nonchalantly takes another bite, giving her a small nod of acknowledgement. He'd deliberately left off the sunglasses, knowing she wouldn't be contented otherwise. She has every right to denounce him as a fake and liar, and call him out for being such a bastard to her all those years ago. However, he's been forming his arguments in his head for the past couple of hours and can't help going over them again.

_You're married, and have a kid you obviously adore. You have the career you always wanted. I had to leave, to give you a chance at that happiness. You can't hate me too much._

Monk tenses as she slips an index card into the pages of the book, disposes of her dishes, and then comes over to sit across from him. But the finger pointing he expects never happens; he watches as she blinks rapidly and looks down at her hands. He does the same and notices the knuckles of her right one are oddly red, as if irritated by something; she scrunches her lips together before meeting his eyes, testing his patience when she studies him for an extended period of time instead of saying something. Anything.

She frowns, and then shakes her head as if to rid herself of a notion. Her tone is low so that only he can hear it, though it's obvious the other men are trying to eavesdrop by the way their conversation drops off.

"Malachy? I'm sorry, for before. For running out like that. It's just…when you took off your sunglasses…It was the first time I really saw your face. You remind me of someone, and it threw me."

The disappointment is a surprise, one that drops a brick in his stomach.

_How can you look at me and not see me?! Do you really think this is just a similarity? You know me! _

Monk stares at her, seeing pain in her eyes. Pain likely caused by him.

_Do I do this? Do I ask? Do I open this motherfucking door?_

But he has to know what she'll say, after all this time. If it's even him she's talking about, because apparently being a maudlin bastard isn't limited to only when he's drinking. Sometimes the best way to get the right answer is to ask the wrong question, so he reaches out and touches her wedding ring, then uses the same finger to trace a question mark on the table.

She gives a brilliant smile, with an exhale containing a hint of a laugh. "Sam? No. You're nothing like Sam."

_Sam. Sam Zare. How is it possible to be insanely jealous of someone you've never even met? Sure as fuck when she thinks of me, I don't put that kind of a smile on her face._

"I—" she frowns as she speaks, then turns her head slightly, seeming to notice their audience for the first time. George and the other guys go back to looking at their cards, talking loudly to cover up the fact that they were completely silent just a moment before.

Veronica looks out toward the window before glancing back at him questioningly. "It's getting close to sunset. Don't you have somewhere to be? I don't want to mess with tradition."

He notices how low the sun is sitting in the sky and marvels at the lack of urgency he feels. Until now, sunsets were the only time he had allowed himself with her, in any form, and nothing kept him from them. Now he curses the damned end of day for interrupting whatever she was going to say. For giving her the excuse to not say it.

Standing up he nods at her, throws his dishes in the tub and makes a decision as he heads out the door. Once he is on the deck and out of sight of cribbage players, he turns to face her. She is watching him rather than reading her book so he tilts his head in invitation. She seems to get the secrecy in the summons, giving a subtle nod before slowly gathering up her book and sauntering toward the door.

_All we need is a girl's bathroom and an 'Out of Order' sign and it will be like sneaking around in high school all over again. Except this time her legs won't be wrapped around my waist. _

_And that's the last time you let yourself go there._

_You are a serious suckage of fun. But…yeah._

Wordlessly, she follows him up the various stairs to reach his private perch. They still have about forty minutes before the finale and he settles in on the bench, leaving enough room for her to sit beside him.

The book she sets down serves as a barrier between their hands, where they both clutch the bench as they look out at the sea. He's hoping she'll start, but feels as if his skin is covered in ants when she doesn't speak for a full two minutes.

Finally unable to wait any longer, Monk leans toward her and cups his hand around his ear, but is unprepared for the name that falls from her mouth. It punches directly through his stomach, as if the sharp edges of the letters have cut him open.

"Logan. I was going to say you remind me of a…well, a boy I used to know named Logan. I didn't realize it until I saw your eyes, but you could pass for his…god, I don't know, his uncle or his brother." She lets out a shaky laugh. "Then again, I'm probably just seeing something that isn't even there because I've been thinking about him so much lately."

It takes her entire speech for him to catch his breath, taking inconspicuous gulps of air between his teeth. He'd thought she'd hint at this, or talk around it. It never used to be her style to just come right out with what was bothering her.

'_So much lately'? Since when is lately? Since you got on the ship and first saw me, or before? Do I even want to know? _

But now he has to know, if she'll tell him. Even if she has been thinking about Logan – him _fuck, that's confusing. It's been years since I've been 'Logan' in anything but my memories -_ why would it make her so upset, after all this time, to see a resemblance? He turns to look at her and makes sure she's watching as he touches his fists over his heart, and grimaces as he wretches them apart, attempting to make his face a question.

She turns to look up at the sky and nods her head, her jaw moving around before she drawls, "Oh, yeah." She extends the syllables on these words until they take up a full four seconds, but it's a long moment before she speaks again. A long moment when he thinks that's all he's going to get from her.

_Come on, Veronica. What's going on with you?_

The hint of a smile turns her lips up as if a good memory comes to her. "I was mandated to do community service when I was still in college."

_Random non sequitur, but now I'm curious. _

He widens his eyes at her, but he is thwarted at getting any more details when she turns her head and winks at him. Her low chuckle and the shake of her head is a refusal of something he hasn't even asked yet.

"I'm not going to tell you why; it's too ridiculous."

He grins at her and nods his head to encourage her to continue. The possibilities of why she would have had to do enforced community service are vast, given her extra-curricular activities at the time. But that's not what he wants to hear about right now.

"I was assigned to work at a nursing home. It was depressing as hell, but I found I really loved listening to the old people talk about their lives, and my psychology prof agreed to let me turn it into a paper so the time was productive. Anyway, they could ramble on and get distracted so I came up with a list of questions to keep them focused. My paper was about the post-game perspective, and the events they think impacted them the most."

_Leave it to you to turn community service into a college paper _and_ a philosophical investigation._

He watches her face as she talks, focusing on the fading sky in front of them. She seems resigned and sad, mellower than the first time he had seen her up here. "There are the obvious, positive things: meeting a lover for the first time, getting married, children being born. But the ones they gave the most details about, the moments that seemed to have the biggest resonance, were the heartbreaks. Having people die, leave, or betray us causes the biggest ricochet, and our subsequent happiness seems to stem from how we deal with that."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring out at the deep oranges and pinks that are just starting to appear. Tonight's sky is going to be stunning, and he wants to imprint every shade into this memory to replay with the sound of her voice when she's gone.

Monk wonders about his own post-game perspective - all the heartbreaks both behind and ahead of him. She said having people leave causes some of the biggest ricochets, but he could add a paragraph or two to her paper about how being the leaver affects you as much as being left. The leaver has to live with the anguish of wondering if they should have done things differently, because they were the one to make the choice.

When she doesn't talk again he glances over his shoulder to see her still staring at the horizon. Their knees aren't too far apart, so he bumps hers to bring her attention back to the half-silent conversation they were having. It's the nudge of a friend, and all that's appropriate given their circumstances.

Her eyes flit to lock with his and he sees it again, the recognition and the subsequent shift when she convinces herself what she's seeing isn't real. "Malachy, I appreciate that you're being nice and asking about this, but I'm in kind of a strange place right now. Trust me when I say you don't want to hear it."

Monk keeps her gaze and leans toward her, cupping his hand around his ear again. She closes her eyes and nods, wetting and rubbing her lips together as in preparation to talk.

"Logan and I grew up together. We were friends before anything else, but then in high school things got, well, complicated between us. Then we fell in love, but it didn't always go well. It usually didn't go well." The small chuckle she gives is unpleasant, full of regret rather than humor. "After freshman year of college, he just up and left town. I never heard from him again."

_Thank you, Veronica, for saying that we fell in love. But here comes the part where you talk about how much you hate me, right?_

"I was so angry at him for making that decision on his own, and I put a lot of energy into convincing myself I didn't need him anymore. Convincing myself that I hated him, when he was just a messed up kid who was trying to figure things out. It took me a long time to see past it. But talking to those old people pushed me to forgive him and move on with my life. And thank god or I might have missed out on marrying Sam."

It peels a few paper-thin layers from his heart to watch as she looks fondly down at her wedding ring, and gives a smile he once thought belonged only to him. But he can't begrudge her this. It was the point of his defection, after all.

_And she said she forgave me. That's a gift I never thought I'd get._

Tucking her hands under her knees, she studies the sky again. "But every once in a while something will remind me of Logan. A song or a quote or a particular shade of brown eyes," she angles her head his way, raising her eyebrows and giving him a small smile, "and I can't think, or even breathe for a moment. Maybe you know what I'm talking about?"

The way she shoots a look at the emo tattoo on his arm is a question itself. He can't give her the words to explain, but words aren't really needed. Instead he just locks eyes with her for the time it takes to lose the bottom curve of the sun below the horizon, and gives a slow nod.

She looks away from him, at the darkening sky, but somehow he doesn't think she's seeing it. "So, yeah me. I've moved on with my life. At least, I thought so until Logan's sister came to see me a few months ago. She wanted to hire me to find him, as if I was still working as a private detective."

_Trina? Was she out of money? Wait, I know. She was offered an update to the E! True Hollywood story on the condition that I make an appearance._

_Or she's finally gotten around to being worried about me._

…_(snort)_

_Fair point._

"I didn't realize that he'd lost touch with her, too. That bothered me, since she was the last person he had a connection to. But I turned her down; I figured she was only looking for him for money."

_But then you just couldn't leave it alone, could you?_

"Then it started to bother me. I knew she would hire someone else, but it would be someone that didn't know him. And it brought up all these questions I thought I had laid to rest years ago." She turns her head and gives him a wry, slightly embarrassed smile.

"Are you sure you want to hear this?"

_No backtracking now, V. I'm not letting you leave this deck until you tell me. _

He keeps her gaze, nodding at her to continue. She takes a big breath and he can see her eyes clench shut, as if she's in pain.

"I don't even know why I'm talking about this. Except, if I don't talk to somebody I'm going to go crazy." She gives a small laugh and uses her fingers to press the corners of her eyes, wiping the few tears that she pulls away onto her jeans.

_Just talk, Veronica._

"So I started with the basics. Follow the money. He had two trust funds. One he received when he turned eighteen, the other to transfer to his control when he turned twenty-one. He burned through the first one pretty quickly, living in Europe."

He'd expected judgment, but sees only pain in her face. She withholds the details of how he spent the money; all he remembers is a lot of hotels and astronomical bar bills.

_Weird that I appreciate her keeping some secrets about Logan from Monk. She wasn't always so generous about my misbehavior._

"Then he moved onto South America. Maybe because it's cheaper? I don't know."

Monk feels his heart jump at this news, and grips the bench tightly waiting for her to continue.

_Veronica, I knew you were good but. how. the. fuck. did you follow me here? _

"The money from his second trust fund disappeared the minute it came through, so that was a dead end. He had a ton of credit card charges though, the last at this little motel in Paraguay years ago, and then nothing."

_Paraguay? I've never even been to Paraguay. I didn't use my credit cards or anything else with my real name on it after Athens. What the hell is going on?_

Veronica rolls her head his way and, seeing the sadness that lines her face, he wonders at it. Is she sad that his time after leaving her was spent so pathetically, or because she didn't get solve to her mystery?

"I didn't have any luck trying to get more information on the phone, so I found a way to come down here."

_How exactly did you pull that off? 'Hey Sammy baby. You don't mind if your wife skips on down to South America so she can look up an old lover, do you? Sweet! See you in a week!'_

He's starting to feel like one of those little glass birds; the kind that are filled with water and wear a black top hat that you put on your desk and use your finger to make them bob up and down. But he nods again anyway, not really sure how else to let her know he's listening.

"A friend of mine was working a case and got a lead that had to be followed down to Columbia. I offered to go in his place. Did the whole two-birds-one-stone thing. It's actually how I ended up on this gig. I was already down here and done with my official business, so it was nice and convenient. They caught me right before I left to catch my plane home." She stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles and using her feet as a new focal point for her stare.

_That answers that question, but who really cares? What did you find in Paraguay?_

When she's quiet a few loud heartbeats longer than he can stand, he leans over and nudges her shoulder. She looks up at him, a little startled based on the widening of her eyes.

"What? Oh, sorry. I hate when people don't get to the point. So I go to Paraguay, and find the motel where he last had credit card charges ten years ago. It's this tiny, family-owned dive and the owner is retired, but her son is running the place and he called her for me. Turns out she remembers Logan."

The night is warm, balmy even, so he's sure it's not cold that makes her cross her arms. "He stayed at her motel for about a month. She said he had a more than a few wild parties in his room, and wasn't the best guest, but he paid his bill so she let him stay. It's just that kind of place."

_Wild parties. In South America. Is that supposed to mean you think I'm a heavy drug user too? This is a fucktastic last chapter to our story. _

He feels a little sick to his stomach at what she must think of him, but can't bring himself to fix it.

"Anyway, one day he left and never came back. She threw his passport and personal stuff in a box in the storage room, and forgot about it until I showed up. I had to go through a couple decades of guest registers and other junk until I found it." Veronica stands up and steps over to the railing, then turns to face him. He meets her gaze, knowing she is looking for the resemblance she noticed before. She grasps the steel bars behind her so tightly her knuckles turn white.

"God, you have to understand how weird this is for me. It's like I'm looking at Logan and telling him Logan is dead. Which, if that's the case, I'm the goddamn Ghost Whisperer."

_Logan is dead, Logan is dead. _The phrase loops through his mind, as if repetition will help it make sense. _Wait…What?! Did I miss a step here? What the hell are you talking about, dead?_

She must have seen the shock and confusion he is feeling reflected on his face, because she chuckles bitterly and rolls her eyes. "If you were Logan I would hope I would have broken that to you a little gentler."

Turning around to look out at the fading light, she rests her forearms on the railing and stays quiet. He moves to stand beside her and mimics her pose, wanting nothing more than to grab her and shake her until she tells him what the hell she found. His knees are trembling with the impatience of it.

When their glances meet, he tilts his head down at her and raises his eyebrows, resemblance be damned. _Tell me the rest._

"I could see him leaving, but not without his passport, or without using his credit cards. So I checked the hospital and police records for that year, just in case. The one that panned out was a John Doe found in a shallow grave about three months after Logan disappeared." She swallows noticeably and looks down at her hands. "All his teeth were pulled and he was burnt beyond recognition, but he had a key with a room number that matched his at the motel – it didn't have the motel name on it, though. And he was carrying a metal keychain I gave him."

_Wait. The passport. The keychain. The credit cards. I threw those all away in a dumpster before I left Greece. _

Everything starts to make sense, finally, and he hates that there is no way he can tell her that someone must have found his trash and stolen his identity.

He wants so badly to shout the truth at her, but stops himself before he can. _Maybe this is better. At least she has closure, even if it's a lie. _

"The tox screen showed at least three different hard drugs in his system, which is totally confusing because that's not like him, but maybe things changed." She closes her eyes tightly and shakes her head. "Or maybe he was just a stupid kid who thought he was invincible."

_No, _you_ thought you were invincible. I thought I wasn't worth being cautious. There's a difference._

"Anyway, the police said that there's no point in trying to figure out who killed him; it's too common an M.O. around there and the murderers are rarely caught, especially so long after the fact. So that's it. This story ended over a decade ago and I didn't even know it."

The look she gives him is pain filled, her eyes pooling and overflowing with tears, her lips quivering as they turn down and press together to hold back the sob he can hear working at the back of her throat.

"It's all just…I'm having a thousand different emotions every minute and I don't know what to do with them. One second I'm in tears, like when you found me last night. The next I'm so angry I'm punching steel walls and screaming into pillows."

Monk looks at the reddened knuckles of her right hand and knows she's telling the truth, but he's also seen her skipping around the boat, playing 'king of the world', digging into his real name and bragging about her kid. Were their situations reversed he's sure he couldn't do the same.

Veronica takes a deep breath and steeples her fingers over her mouth and nose, wiping the tears from her cheeks after giving a deep sniffle. "Then I push it all down and try to go about things as usual, finding any reason to distract myself. Which only lasts so long before it all hits me again, and I have to find a quiet place to fall apart until the wave passes."

_I'm sorry. At this point I don't even know if the truth would be better, and I'm not ready to take that risk. At least this way, you don't seem to hate me. _

She pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, fisting them so the material can absorb the salt water from her fingers. "This too shall pass, right? But for now," she gives a sad, lopsided smile, "To quote 'I don't know what your situation is but I wanted you to know what mine is, not just to explain some rude behavior, but because we're on a little boat for a while and... I'm soul sick. And you're going to see that'."

It takes him a minute to recognize the reference, since it comes from a movie he hasn't thought about in years. How many times did Duncan make them watch 'Joe vs. the Volcano' that summer when they were all fourteen?

_It's probably safer that you don't show you know the source. Who the hell else would know that weird, little movie so well?_

Instead he responds to the sentiment intended, since he's feeling a little soul sick himself. He knows he shouldn't, that it's a bizarre gesture from someone whom she thinks is a random stranger, but he holds out his hand to her. It's not the hug she needs, but it's all he can give her at this moment.

She keeps her eyes locked on his as she grasps it. Resting their conjoined hands on top of the railing connecting them, they turn to watch the sky while she uses the sleeve of her sweatshirt to dry her cheeks.

* * *

Back on the main deck, afterward, Veronica hesitates at the foot of the last ladder. She's biting the inside of one cheek and seems to be having trouble meeting his eyes. His self-enforced silence has taught him patience, though, and he waits her out.

"So…that was a little weird. I don't usually inflict tons of my emotional baggage on people I barely know."

_Or on people you do. It just wish it could have been that easy when we knew each other before._

He doesn't want her to walk away embarrassed from their time together. Any attempt to put her at ease will likely have the opposite effect, and her avoiding him for the next two days might be more painful that her subsequent absence will be. So he stalls, exaggerating The Thinker's pose while he frantically ransacks his brain for something to extend their time together that evening.

_But why? What do you want from her?_

_Maybe just to give her a friend when she obviously needs one._

_Survey says bullshit. You're just a greedy little fucker and want a little more time with her._

_Another fair point. _

She waits with a skeptical smile on her face until he moves, snapping his fingers and waving at her to follow him. He sticks close to the wall, tiptoeing in an overdone way. They have to pass by the mess to get where he wants to go, and he doesn't want anyone waylaying them. Plus, he wants to make this fun for her.

Squatting down below the window level, he can hear her stifled giggles as she crouch-walks behind him. Now that it's dark, the five crew members that aren't working, plus Javier and Trevor Petturi, are hanging out together. It sounds like a raucous poker game is in session. Monk peeks in from his low stance and, when he sees they're all looking away from the door, waves her to make her move.

She crawls past the open doorway, then waits on the other side until he is clear to follow and crosses in front of her. Finally in the clear, he stands up and grabs her hand, pulling her along at a half run until they reach the next door and dart inside.

By now she is fully laughing, leaning up against the freezer and holding her stomach. Her face is glowing, her eyes shining with amusement as she looks at him standing by the door.

His cheeks are starting to hurt from the huge grin that has spread across his face. He can remember her chuckling, snorting, even giggling, but none of the kind of laughter that makes it hard to catch your breath since before Lilly died.

"What the hell was that all about?" she finally sputters, when she's calmed down enough to speak full sentences again.

Sticking up his pointer finger, Monk uses it to make a circle and points to the freezer behind her. She spins around and looks back at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Is this one of those new-fangled things I keep hearing about that keeps food cold?"

_And bodies, smartass. _He rolls his eyes and reaches into a cupboard to bring down two bowls, then opens a drawer to grab a couple of spoons.

She gives the freezer a happier, appraising look. "Ice cream? You have ice cream?"

He opens a palm to make a flourishing motion, and she follows orders, yanking open the door and half disappearing in the icebox until she comes up with a couple of large, plastic tubs. "We have Rocky Road and Orange Sherbet."

Her scrunched up nose as she looks at the sherbet broadcasts her preference clearly, but he grabs both tubs from her anyway. Searching the drawers for a scoop, he finally comes up with one and makes a show of putting just a bite of each flavor in a bowl and handing it to her.

"You know that since you contaminated the bowl with stupid sherbet, that one's yours, right?"

He holds the bowl out more firmly to her, and tilts his head to indicate a challenge. A challenge he knows she'll never turn down.

With an air of disdain, she grabs the bowl and picks up one of the spoons on the counter. "Fine, whatever. I'll try your gross concoction. But why are guys always trying to talk women into putting things in their mouths?"

_Wait…did she actually just say that?_

Seeing the wide-eyed, frozen expression on his face she grins saucily at him. "What? That was funny." Making a show of mixing the two before she takes a bite, he waits while she rolls the mixture around her mouth, then gives him a look of concession. "Not bad."

Veronica shoves the bowl at him, saying, "But not good. I just want chocolate." She tucks the spoon in her mouth and washes off the scoop before she loads up on Rocky Road, leaving him to serve himself while she noshes. He combines the two flavors, a concoction he came up with out of boredom from the unvaried menu on the ship. His favorite flavor, butter pecan, isn't available from their supplier.

They eat their treat in companionable silence. It's rare somebody can stay with him for a long period and not feel an obligation to fill the space with chatter, and he appreciates it.

_Right, like you wouldn't listen to an audiobook of her reading an appliance manual. But this is okay, too. _

He's washing out his bowl while she sits on the counter, scraping the side of her dish to eek every drop out of her second helping. He grabs it from her while she's still running her spoon around and around, trying to get the last dregs, and she squeals at him.

"Hey! I wasn't finished with that!"

_Just saving you the disgrace of sticking your face in it so you can lick it clean, Jughead._

When he ignores her, she tosses her spoon over his shoulder so it lands in the sink. "Fine. If you're going to steal my bowl you have to wash the spoon too."

_As if that wasn't already going to happen. _

"Oh well, I should probably go to bed anyway. Can I ask you a favor, though?"

He turns from his chore, dropping her cleaned spoon in the dish drainer before he faces her.

"That guy you assigned to take me down to the body check tonight, Javier."

Monk leans back and crosses his arms, waiting to hear her favor.

"He just… he was a little freaked out. He kept jumping at the littlest things and talked my ear off. Can you have somebody else take me down tomorrow, or give me a set of keys?"

_Shit, there's no one else to send. Diego will have my head if I loan anybody else my keys. Maybe he'll split the duty with me though. _

But the day has changed things. At some point her presence has stopped being painful to him. He can't remember the last time he's had so much fun on this boat, and decides adding a few more good memories to his bank before she returns to her son and husband would be harmless. They had lots of good memories from before, when they were just friends.

Nodding, he points to himself, and uses his finger to make a cross over his heart.

She huffs out a laugh, going out the galley door as he holds it open for her. "Stick a needle in your eye?"

His nod is confirmation, and he follows her to where their berths are, a mere ten feet from each other. Her door is reached first and, to him, it feels oddly like a date. If this were twelve years ago, during the summer between high school and college when they were at their best, he would have her pinned against the wall while blindly reaching for the door and—

_And we already agreed no good can come of thinking like that. _

When she turns around to face him, and wishes him goodnight, he totally chokes. He pulls some moment out of a bad 80s sitcom and sticks his hand out, shaking hers formally when she warily meets the gesture.

Her authentic-sounding British accent makes him smirk. "Why yes, sir. A lovely evening, indeed. Cheerio."

Her grin thrills as she lets go of his hand and slips into her door, leaving that tingly feeling in his palm again. He shuffles outside her berth for a minute longer than etiquette would require, but he's reluctant to put anymore distance between them. Finally, though, he moves off toward his room.

_It's probably safer. If I keep hanging out here I might break into a rendition of "On the Street Where You Live". _

His body is exhausted, worn from the little sleep he had the night before and the emotions that have coursed through him during the day. But his mind won't stop spinning. Grabbing his things, he goes to the head and takes a shower that is as hot as possible, hoping the heat will relax him to the point where his brain will just shut the fuck up.

Lying in his bunk after, he still can't sleep and he doesn't have the focus to read. His usual method of self-soothing isn't an option tonight, despite the state of near-constant arousal he's been in all day.

Veronica is crowding his brain and it would be so easy to let her invade him, but tomorrow would be more difficult as a result. As for Eva, it feels dishonest to use her like that after all his thoughts and emotions about Veronica over past twenty-four hours. Even within the confines of his own head he owes Eva more, a hell of a lot more, least of all honesty.

_He wakes up, the moon shining brilliantly through the window, like a spotlight directly into his eyes. He's not sure if that's what disturbed his sleep, or the low-pitched keening that is coming from outside. Since the image of Veronica's face the last time he saw her was in his dream, he's sure it's the latter. _

_Throwing on his shorts, the closest thing on hand, he shuffles his way out to the back porch where he know he'll find Eva. Even before they become lovers, when she was just his housekeeper and then his friend, he'd occasionally heard her out here in the middle of the night._

_That was how they had started. Once they had known each other for a year, the barrier of strangers had been worn down enough that he could no longer lie in his bed and listen to her cry, pretending to sleep while she tended her broken heart. Finally approaching her that night, he had wordlessly held her while she'd sobbed in his arms and poured out her story._

_When she was twenty-nine she had been happily married to Eduardo, the kindest, most loving man that ever existed - at least to hear her tell it. They'd had a two-year-old son and she was pregnant with their second when the car accident had happened. She had lost them all, as well as the ability to have more children. _

_If anyone understood loss, it was him; though he came to realize nothing could compare to the loss of a child. But he had held her while she cried that night, and several nights after. Helping her seemed to ease his own pain. Finally, after another year of giving each other friendship and comfort, she had made the decision for both of them. She came into his bed instead of waiting for him to find her on the porch, and their lovemaking had been a relief; they were both the kind of people that craved touch. It was when he called out at the end that she had busted him on his fake muteness. He was glad though, because it had become increasingly wearing never talking to anybody. _

_Tonight he finds her in her usual spot, hugging the knees she's pulled up to her chest and rocking gently on the porch swing. He sits and wraps an arm around her while she cries into his chest, taking her time to fully purge before letting out a huge breath and watching the waves with him for a while._

"_Do you want to talk about them?" Sometimes this helps her, even though it's usually a repeat of what she's told him before._

"_No, not tonight. I sick of me. Tell me why your heart is also break." Her accent is even thicker when she is upset, but she originally insisted they only speak English since she wanted to get better at it, and now it's a habit between them. _

_He runs his fingertips up and down her back, and kisses the top of her head that is resting against his chest. "I told you, I can't talk about it."_

_She sits up, the moonlight shining off of her skin and underlining the glare she is giving him. "__Ándate a la chucha!__ I tell you everything. You tell me nothing."_

"_It's easier that way." _

_Her anger is making her practically vibrate, and she jumps off the swing to stand over him. "No. It makes me whore. You pay me. I live you house, I eat you food, I suck you cock, but you no talk to me!"_

"_I pay you to cook and take care of the house, like always. Not to sleep with me. Trust me, Eva, you're not a whore. There's just a lot you don't know." _

_She leans over and moves her glare a mere six inches from his face. As she yells, he can feel a fine spray hit his chin. "Because you no talk to me!"_

_When he just glares back, and doesn't move away from her, she narrows her eyes meanly. "Veronica."_

_He's never told Eva anything about his past. That she can throw Veronica's name at him as if it's ammunition means she's been lying to him for…how long? Since she started working for him? Or since somebody figured out his real identity and tipped her off? Maybe a reporter. Maybe not. The tremors of fear start from his feet and course up his legs, making his balls practically crawl into his body. He has to clench his fists to keep from grabbing her. "Where. The. Fuck. Did you hear that name?"_

"_You, you sleeptalk asshole! When you to sleep and pull me close, that what you say."_

_He did this. He gave her the name she's dangled in front of him. The panic starts to abate, leaving room for the rational part of his mind to take over. No reporters are about to descend on his new, peaceful life and cause him to run again. Nobody is going to open a newspaper tomorrow and find out where he's living. And even if his sham was about to fall apart, it wouldn't be because of Eva. By now he knows she would never intentionally hurt him. _

"_I finish with wait for you. You tell me now, who is Veronica, or I leave you."_

_He gets it, mostly because of Veronica. He remembers how it felt having her come by his penthouse late at night, then take off before it was even morning because she had a case she wouldn't tell him anything about. At first he'd joked about surprise booty calls, but he'd finally told her the same thing Eva had just said; a roll in the hay did not a relationship make. The time has come for the truth not only for her sake, but because he's tired of holding it all in._

_So he tells Eva everything. His real name, his parents, Lilly, Duncan, and lastly, Veronica, starting from when they were twelve and through their year at Hearst. When he finally gets to the end, the sun is rising and they have moved into the kitchen to finish talking over coffee._

"_Wait, I not understand. You just leave? She love you and you leave her?" Her brow furrows as she tries to make sense of this._

"_I had to. There wasn't another choice." _

_The anger comes back to her in increments, first coloring her cheeks, then widening her eyes. He reaches out to touch her hand and she jumps out of her chair, ignoring when it hits the wall behind her._

"_Eduardo dead. My sons dead. _I _no have other choice."_

_She has a point, and he knows how much she carries this pain around with her. She'll be fine for weeks, and then something so small, like hearing a child laugh, will set off a torrent of grief. Of course she wouldn't understand this._

"_OK, fine. I made a choice and I'm living with it. She's living with it. But isn't that kind of the point?"_

"_You no speak, you run and hide, you live to woman you no love. You say that life?"_

_Familiar with the tempestuous side of her, he doesn't try to touch her again. So, instead, he leans back and studies her; hip jutted to the side, hand resting on it and causing her elbow to angle, leaning toward him with a fury that causes the air around her to practically shimmer._

"_I only ran because of her. This _is_ my life now. I talk to you, and I care about you, even if I'm still in love with her. I thought you especially could understand that."_

_The angry shimmer slowly fades, and she leans back, dropping the hand and crossing her arms as she studies him. "And this enough is for you?"_

_Their future together hangs in the outcome of his answer; he can feel that and he hates the thought of losing her. She's come to mean more to him that he had thought possible. He hasn't had a best friend since kicking Dick out, after overhearing the guy was partly responsible for that damn video of Veronica and Piz going viral. _

"_If it includes you, yes. Is it enough for you?" She has told him she doesn't think she'll ever fall in love with another man; that she'll never marry again. He would have said that it's a fatalistic attitude to have at thirty-four, but at twenty-three he feels the same. They both understand what it means to commit your heart to someone._

_Eva presses her lips together she shakes her head, causing his empty stomach to flip sickeningly as he reads her action as rejection. "I no understand for you, but for me, yes. Is enough."_

_She comes and settles her solid form in his lap. He's joked that she could be an Amazon; she stands almost as tall as he does, her frame is layered in muscle, and she is covered in skin that is dark brown and taut. There's no scooping her up or manipulating her physically, which makes it all the sweeter when she turns herself over to him. _

Thinking of Eva and Veronica, Monk stares up at his ceiling and ponders the fairy tales they've all been fed since they were children; that trope of meeting your one true love and living happily ever after.

_Who even came up with those notions? With all the myriad of configurations you can put people into, how realistic is it that you will meet that one perfect person at the right time, in the right geographical sphere, and everything will work out?_

It's a concept that sells billions of books and movie tickets every year, and one he still buys into for the brief period he allows himself to get caught up in a story. But the words THE END always feel false to him, since they appear just when the tale is beginning. The filmmakers and authors add epilogues that show a wedding and pictures of a happy couple, but they never go so far as to reveal an aftermath involving a wet road and driver error. They cut and print once the couple reconciles after an emotional night, but don't show the breakup in a parking lot the next day.

And those stories leave out the most important lessons: that 'happily ever after' is a temporary concept, given that someone always leaves or dies; that 'one true' is subjective, considering how many different people we are capable of loving within a lifetime; that love can develop long after you start sharing a home and a life together; that just as you can love all your children, both your parents, and every sibling concurrently, romantic love isn't necessarily limited to one person at a time.

Eva's never resented his love for Veronica, just as he hasn't resented hers for Eduardo. Both have been the topic of many open conversations, though it's been a long time since either of their names has come up. The extraneous, silent duo in their foursome has faded more into the background every year.

Until now. Now Veronica is as present in his head as Eva and he's not sure how long it's going to take for her to fade again. He can get through that – he's done it before. But, since Eva will never have a chance to see Eduardo again, it feels like he's cheating on their arrangement, and is helpless to stop it. It's a strange kind of infidelity.

His head is heavy with all the thoughts weighing it down, and he pushes back into the pillow. He's on the edge of crazy, and may go completely over if he can't think of something to distract himself. Since counting things never helps, he tries to remember the words to a complicated poem he once knew.

_When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,  
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;  
For your brain is on fire - the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:  
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;_

It seems to be working - the effort at recall not allowing him to focus on anything else. Until he gets stuck trying to remember the second verse.

_Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool  
Lovin' both of you is breakin' all the rules_

_Poetry, not lyrics. And only an asshole would soundtrack me with 70s soft rock right now. That's not helping._

_Here I am playing with those memories again  
And just when I thought time had set me free  
Those thoughts of you keep taunting me_

Monk lets out a low chuckle in the dark room. The release that comes from picking apart any situation to mine it for dark humor makes him feel lighter, but he can't let it continue or he'll be up all night.

_Air Supply? That is so not funny. I'm in actual emotional pain here. Distraught as all get out, motherfucker, so knock it off._

_Over you, over you  
I guess I never will be over you  
I have tried but it's so hard to do  
I'm surrounded by the memories  
No, I never will be over you._

Grabbing his pillow and placing it over his head, Monk groans loudly and tries to suffocate himself, hoping it will kill the asshole part of him that is channeling DJ Casey Kasem in his head.

* * *

**A/N: **As always, thank you, to nevertothethird for betaing all the randomness that falls from my brain and helping me make sense of it.

**A/N:** Each of the reviews, follows and favorites have completely thrilled me. Thanks guys! And please review; I love hearing how this story is playing for you.

**A/N:** For those who are interested, the poem is A Nightmare by Sir W.S. Gilbert. The songs are Torn Between Two Lovers by Mary MacGregor, Here I Am by Air Supply, and Over You by Anne Murray. And I blame my mother that I know these songs since I spent my childhood stuck in the car listening to the same LiteFM stations Aaron Echolls always seemed to be tuned into.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4-Friends

The morning's breakfast is pancakes. Flat, tasteless, overcooked pancakes that contain lumps of unmixed flour. Javier wisely put out tubs of peanut butter and jelly, knowing it was the only way most of the men could choke them down.

Monk has the fortune of being the first person to breakfast, so at least he gets them when they're hot. Making four such sandwiches, he climbs his way up to the wheelhouse at just ten after six.

_I swear if Javier wasn't Diego's cousin he would have been gutted for chum and dropped off the bow by now. _

"Hey, hombre. You're up early." Diego stands up and stretches, turning down the Latin music that had been keeping him company.

Monk shrugs, handing two of the PBJ powder shingles to Diego. It had been another night of little sleep, unable to shut down either the LiteRock mocking him, or the voice that kept asking if letting her believe Logan was dead really was the best option. Even if it gave her closure, and even if it kept her from hating him, Monk knew how unfair it was.

"Ah, Serote! That's it. I'm banning pancakes from the menu. What's with all the gringo breakfasts anyway?"

They had come up with shorthand for the names of the crew members. Shaping his hand into a 'C', Monk mimes whacking off, then clutches his stomach and makes a sick face.

"Chuck can get himself on a white man's ship if he wants white man's food. Fuck him, I'm the captain."

_Yeah, Fuck Chuck…fee fi fo fuck. Wait, I think there's personalized theme song in there._

"Speaking of Chuck, I heard something went down between the two of you yesterday?"

Monk tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows, his signal for Diego to elaborate though he knows exactly what incident he's referring to.

"Connor said Chuck was talking disrespectful about that lady fed and you put him in line."

Nodding his head in agreement of the description, Monk grins when Diego puts a hand up, and gives him a high-five.

"Nicely done. Three days is a long time for her to have to fend off that gilipollas. Glad you shut it down early."

_Knowing Chuck, I probably haven't shut it down. But if Veronica shoots him we'll all back her up on a self-defense plea._

Diego eyes the sandwich he's holding suspiciously but takes a bite anyway, spitting a particularly floury lump into the garbage can when he comes across it. "Weather still looks like it's going to be clear the whole way. Good thing. I want these bodies off my ship as soon as possible."

They sit in silence, breaking their fast until Diego throws his remaining sandwich in the garbage. "You mind taking the wheel? I'm going to get some real food, then I'll be back. I'll give you the ship again at eight."

Monk nods and waves him away, checks their course and settles back for the half hour it takes for Diego to get back. Surprisingly, he has Veronica with him.

"Hey, Monk. This lady was looking for you. Get out of my chair and take her on her body check, lazy ass."

Her long hair is pulled up and held by some kind of clip, likely in response to the heat, and she's wearing off-white cotton trousers with a dark blue t-shirt, very fed-like. He can feel the smile that works itself across his face, and is gratified when it's met with her own.

He walks over to her, giving a silent laugh when she sticks her hand out and continues with her formality from last night. "Good morning, Mr. Lynch. I hope sleep found you well."

Monk grabs her hand, but instead of shaking it, he uses it to twirl her as if in a dance move and pull her out of the wheelhouse. He inwardly cringes, wishing he'd thought it through before he did something so overt, but he relaxes again when she laughs and follows him, giving his grasp a little squeeze before letting go so they can clamber down the stairs.

In the cooler he watches, standing in the door as she walks to a body bag just above the woman with the rings and then squats down, frowning. The bag is already half-unzipped, and she opens it all the way. The room is cold, but they are a lot closer to the equator than they were the day before, and it's already hot and muggy above deck. This would be a pleasant place to linger for a few minutes if it weren't so macabre. He turns from the sight of her doing her examination and silently counts the bodies in the room, one for each of the next thirty-five seconds until his eyes finally reach the last person, whom Veronica is still crouched next to.

Walking over and squatting beside her, Monk taps her shoulder and points around the room, indicating the corpses surrounding them.

"What are you asking?"

Fingerspelling slowly, going backward when she gets a letter wrong, he finally spells out, 'W-H-A-T H-AP-P-E-N-E-D?"

"Did you hear about what Petturi told everyone at dinner the other night?"

He nods his head, holds his hands facing each other, fingertips touching before expanding them outward and mouthing "more".

"More." She opens the bag wider to reveal a young woman, maybe in her late twenties, with wide, large eyes, though they are mercifully closed. Her skin is slightly bloated, her lips are blue and pressed tightly together, and her pallor has an ashen sheen to it.

His stomach starts to rebel against his subpar breakfast, but he works to keep his placid expression set so Veronica won't notice.

"I can't tell you much, just that it's not as scary as you all are probably thinking. They're all like this. As deaths go, it's not the worst thing I've seen. "

Possible scenarios that could render so many people like this run through his head at rapid speed, and he is unable to stop staring at the young woman's face - until suddenly he can't stand to do so anymore. Standing up he whirls around, walks to the cold door and presses his forehead against to prevent himself from losing complete control over his gag reflex.

The sound of a zipper closing behind him is audible, and Veronica's footsteps are followed by the feel of her hand tentatively stroking his back. It helps and it hurts, as all his attention is now tuned to her fingertips as they move lightly over him. One hand, up and down, up and down, with no urgency behind the gesture.

_They sit side-by-side on the white leather couch in his penthouse suite, shoulders touching, both of them slumped down and staring ahead at the blank television. They have been talking for hours, finally getting through much of what they hadn't dealt with over the past year. She cried, he shed a few tears himself, and they are settled into a place of peaceful silence. _

_Logan turns his head toward her and studies her profile. She seems entrenched in thought, worrying her thumbnail between her teeth, but not actually biting down. "Veronica, where does all this leave us? Do you think we can be friends again?"_

_He allows himself to hope that this conversation is about being accepted back into her life, rather than closure. Having her tell him that they were finally done, then be so cold to him in the cafeteria when he tried to apologize for beating up Piz, had scared the hell out of him. Through the tumult of the past few years she's been the one person he could count on. _

_She lets go of the thumbnail and turns to look at him. They study each other at the close distance, and she answers him in a surprising way, by touching her lips tentatively to his._

_When she pulls back he follows, reaching a hand to cup the back of her head and bringing her to meet his mouth again. She tastes as she always had, not sweet or tart, just…Veronica. The kiss is a slow building one, questioning and probing, each pushing a little farther in turn. _

_He keeps his hands from exploring, leaving one behind her head and the other spread at her back, pulling her as close as he dares. She is the one to tip their tentative balance, climbing into his lap and gripping his hair in a way that lets him know she _wants_ this._

_Logan breaks their momentum, reluctantly pulling back so he can watch her eyes. Restarting this endeavor scares the hell out of him, as much as he wants it._

"_Veronica, are you sure about this?"_

_She gives a slow nod, her eyes softening as her lips lilt in response. "Logan, I'm sure. I love you."_

_The little air that was in his lungs pushes out in a chuckle and he closes his eyes, touching his forehead to hers. So many times he'd hoped she say it, left her openings and waited futilely for her to use them. It's the last thing he expected tonight and his swallow is audible. "What did you say?"_

_She laughs and pushes away from him a little, just enough to meet his eyes and give him his favorite lopsided smile, the one that takes up the entire southern hemisphere of her face. "I said I love you. I should have said it a long time ago."_

_Their pattern would usually call for him to make a joke, a quip of some kind, or even to repeat the sentiment back to her. But he refuses to take any import away from this moment. He knows how hard it's been for her to finally say it. She's giving him a gift and he wants the echo of her words in the air a little longer._

_He moves his head slightly to the left so they can resume their kiss, gratified when she does so greedily. Standing up, he cups his hands under her and, not breaking their contact while he waits for her to lock her legs around his waist, heads toward the bedroom. _

_Through their talks it had come out that neither had slept with another person since their breaking up. He and Parker had agreed to take things slow for many reasons and, though he doesn't know why Veronica and Piz stopped short of doing the deed after what he saw on that video, they had. Maybe it means something that neither Veronica nor he shared that part of themselves with other people._

_Reaching the bed, he holds onto her while setting his knees upon the mattress then tipping forward, putting out a hand to break their fall and ease her down gently. Usually they would commence with a heady round of foreplay, touching and teasing until they were both insane with it, and sharing a few laughs in the process. But tonight isn't about sex, or even desire. It's about finding their way back to each other and reestablishing the closeness they perfected last summer. _

_They don't speak, the only sounds coming from their sighs and their lips meeting in-between removing each article of clothing. When there are finally no barriers he pulls her to lie beside him, slinging one arm above them while using his other hand to cradle the back of her head. Hers arms are folded, trapped between their chests and their mouths are completely involved in the moment, giving everything their hands aren't. _

_His skin grows heated everywhere they touch in this tentative hold – his upper chest where her hands are resting, his cock's head where it brushes against her belly, his thighs where they push against her knees. When she straightens her legs and presses herself closer, eradicating the few spaces left between them, Logan has to hold himself still for a long moment as an immense wave of desire courses fully through him, and then calms to the point where it can be controlled. _

_Veronica seems to understand, not moving for the interminable seconds it takes until the quaking in his breath stills. He's not sure which of them initiate the position change, but in the next moment she is under him, using her thighs to cradle his hips as she pushes up against him. _

_He lowers his head to her neck, but she stops him almost as soon as he's begun, pulling him back up and shaking her head. Her feet are already hooked around him so, when she shifts her hips and reaches down to position him just right, it would be a simple matter of just lowering himself. But he holds back, leaning on his elbows and taking in the sight of her._

_Her eyes are full of love and trust for him; another gift he'd never thought he'd see again. He can feel her fingertips begin to stroke his back, up and down in a way that is patient, and says she is enjoying the feel of him under her hands. Finally he moves slowly into her, taking his time though her slick heat enveloping him says it's not necessary._

_Logan sets a slow rhythm and her hips move up to meet his, matching the unhurried pace as their eyes never waver from each others. All sense of a world outside the small space they are occupying flees his consciousness; coherent thought is overtaken by the wonder of her soft-eyed gaze as they move together._

_Toward the end, when he knows his body is going to betray him and bring a shuddering end to this bliss, he forces himself to hold back his own release until she is there with him. He repositions them slightly, locking the elbow of one arm so he can reach down and touch her in the way he knows will tip her over the edge. It's bittersweet when her breath starts to hitch and her eyes begin to flutter, working so hard not to lose contact with his. _

_Then she breaks and the moment suddenly becomes feral; her eyes close a second before his, her back arches, and she cries out. A hand moves to roughly pull his head into the crook of her neck and he finds himself drawing at her flesh as her nails dig into his scalp and his back. Her muscles are contracting around him in a way that is unbearably satisfying. The immense pleasure and pain brings him to the edge of his own climax and he drives hard into her, unable to maintain the tenderness that had brought them to this. He finally has to let himself go, moving his arms to clutch her tightly as the litany of her name falls from his throat, only to be muffled by her skin._

_When he stills, her whispered, "Logan," isn't a question or a prompt. It's a benediction of everything they've shared that's brought them here, enriched by her arms and legs tightening to pull him even closer, as if she's determined not to loosen any hold she has on him._

"Malachy, I'm so sorry."

_No, dammit, LOGAN. If I'm not Logan I don't get to have even the memory of that night. _

"I forget not everybody is used to this. I'm surrounded by feds all the time, my dad used to be a cop, and Sam was in the marines before he was a police detective. But hey, I'm a blast at slumber parties and around campfires. Lots of scary stories to tell."

It takes a moment for his mind to pull itself from the past into the present. He takes in a deep breath, moving his head a bit to a cooler part of the door, trying to seek stability for an entirely different reason than his reaction to viewing that dead body. But the hand she still has on his back isn't helping, and they can't stand here forever.

He shakes his head and opens the door, waiting for her to walk out before he turns around to lock it. It takes him two fumbling tries and, when he finishes and faces her, she is leaning against the wall, watching him with concern scrunching her eyebrows together.

That particular memory, of the last time they made love, is one he's never allowed himself. It had taken days for the marks of her fingernails on his skin to fade, then finally disappear, and he can still remember the location of each one, though he had spent each of those days avoiding touching or looking at them.

He can feel her watching him as he backs up against the wall and grabs his knees, taking in deep breaths. But it's not the bodies or even the memory itself that has him so thrown. It's that the recollection was less of a recall than a war-veteran style flash back, not just involving the events of that night, but also everything he had been feeling at the time. It's a stunning realization that he'd worked so damn hard to not be Logan Echolls that he actually succeeded somewhere along the way.

Embodying that nineteen-year-old fuck-up for even a short span of time feels oddly restorative, though he hadn't even realized he was missing him. Had _liked_ him, in many ways.

"Malachy, are you okay?"

He is and he's not. The image of that dead woman will probably come back to him later, but he's regaining his equilibrium now that he's out of the body room and Veronica's hand is no longer on his back. It takes effort, but he pushes the memory of the last time they made love to the Logan box in his brain, where it belongs for the moment. A box he's starting to realize he may no longer be able to open or shut at will.

He stands up and takes a deep breath, giving her a closed mouth smile that is all he can manage given the sheepishness he's experiencing after his reaction. Finally his brain allows him to recall her words, as if there is a two minute delay in the processing.

_Your husband was a marine? Holy feelings of inadequacy Veronica. _

Once his mind has the space to focus on the present, he's devoured by a curiosity about her husband. Getting the little information he did, he wants more. Maybe, if she talks about Sam, he can get a clearer picture of their life together, and he needs the reminder she's someone else's now.

_Do you really want to know, _Logan_?_

_I figure I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't._

_Sure. Tell me if that still holds true, later._

He reaches out and touches her wedding ring. When she shakes her head in confusion, he fingerspells S-A-M twice.

"Sam? You're asking about Sam?"

Logan nods and leans against the wall opposite her, crossing his arms in some combination of forced relaxation and self-protectiveness. Hopefully she'll read it just as a sign he is settling in for a story.

"What do you want to know?"

_Everything. Nothing. _He puts up both fists, about twelve inches apart and raises the pointer finger on each, then moves them together.

Her frown deepens for a moment before she asks, "How we met?" Logan nods at her, and she smiles sympathetically at him. "Will that get your mind off the victims?"

He shrugs, then repeats the gesture to indicates he wants to know how they met.

She settles her back against the wall and tucks her hands into her pockets, her smile changing into the kind you give when you're about to convey a happy memory.

"Joint task effort between us feds and the San Diego PD. Which is a highfalutin' way of saying Sam and I spent three days sitting in a car together while the bad guy was caught somewhere else."

When she is quiet, he leans forward and flourishes a hand. _Go on._

"Um, ok. Sam managed to make the stakeout fun, and we got along great, but I really didn't think about him in a romantic context. Then the last day, after we got word our job was over, he surprised me and kissed me."

She laughs and shakes her head, studying a point on the ceiling above him and seeing a memory he's not privy to. "I was pissed. I mean, how dare he, right?"

_He probably understood you would overthink it._

"But when I said that to him, he just laughed at me and said something like, 'If it was so bad, you don't have to kiss me back'. Then I realized I _wanted _to kiss him back. That I had wanted to kiss him for most of the past three days but had rationalized myself out of it."

Logan hates their story, mostly because of how right it sounds. How right Sam sounds for her. Not only is he a badass ex-marine who can protect her, his job as a police detective would make him understand Veronica in a way most other guys wouldn't. And now he knows the guy can also handle her particular brand of tough-girl neurosis.

"Then we started dating, and I kept looking for the fatal flaw, the reason to walk away. I never found it though, just enough little ones that made him human."

_Am I petty if I want to know the things she doesn't like about him? Hell yes, I am, but I can live with that._

He cups a hand around his ear to indicate he's listening, and holds up a finger for a moment, before crooking it in a 'come here' type gesture.

"Name one?" _Nod._ "Ok, let's see…he volunteered with an animal rescue place, occasionally taking in dogs that had been abused and trying to rehabilitate them so they could be adopted out."

_What. A. Bastard. Are you serious with this?_

"Anyway, we had been dating about six months when he brought home Jeannie, this three-year-old German shepherd that cowered if you spoke above a whisper. One night I was watching as he worked with her, using different techniques to teach her to trust him – tone of voice, eye contact, the way he approached her, be consistent and dependable - and I realized he'd been using some of the same techniques on me since we'd started seeing each other."

It shouldn't be funny. The idea of her with any guy, especially one who seems to actually understand her, has no basis for hilarity. Logan tries not to laugh, and manages to keep his mouth closed, but has to suffer the snort of amusement that comes out his nose.

Veronica rolls her eyes and lightly kicks his shin. "Yeah, thanks. Hilarious. Mostly I was pissed off because it had been working."

He presses his lips together and manages to squelch any more noise but, by the way his shoulders are shaking and by how hot his face feels, he knows he isn't fooling her. However, given her grin as she watches him, he's not the only one to see the humor in it.

Humor that fades as he realizes what she's just told him; she _trusts_ Sam. The one thing Logan had always wanted her to just give, and Sam had worked for it – earned it. Suddenly the flaw she handed him isn't good enough.

Holding up two fingers, he does the crooking gesture again. _Give me another._

Veronica narrows her eyes at him. "This is starting to feel really one-sided. Why don't you tell me about your lady? It's obvious all the drawings in your room were done by the same woman."

_Good thing she wasn't in there longer. She might have Agatha Christied all my secrets._

Logan picks up her hand and slowly draws Eva's name into her palm. He could have finger spelled it, but it feels like an impersonal way to tell her about someone who is so important to him.

"Eva?" _Nod_. "Pretty name. How long have you been together?"

He grasps her wrists and raises her hands until they are in front of her, loose with the fingers splayed, then folds down one of her thumbs.

"Nine. Nine months?"

Head shake_, 'No.' _

"Nine years?"

_Nod, 'Yes.' _

Veronica's eyes open wide, studying his. "How come nobody told me about her when I asked around?"

Logan presses a finger against his lips. _Nobody knows. Except Diego, who keeps my secrets._

"God, you are an enigma. Wait, did I get it wrong…is Eva really Evan?" Her coquettish smirk tells him she doesn't think this is actually the case, but she's never been one to turn down an opportunity to tease.

He puts up a flattened palm just an inch below his own height, then proceeds to use both hands to outline a female shape in between them, then uses his open palm to circle his face in the sign for 'beautiful', finishing with kissing the fingertips of one hand and opening them as if he were an old Italian man.

Her look gets wistful, and she crosses her arms, leaning against the wall behind her. "She's tall? I always wanted to be tall."

Logan rolls his eyes at her. _I say what a beautiful woman Eva is, and that's what you walk away with?_

"Ok, now it's your turn to give me one of her faults. Make it a good one, huh?"

_Am I imagining that she seems eager to hear this? Why would she have any investment in Eva's virtues?_

He thinks hard about Eva, trying to choose an imperfection. Her English still isn't flawless, but he loves the way she drops little words and rolls his bought name around her mouth before saying it, turning the I sound at the end into a long eee. Though she's a skilled artist, her art isn't to his usual taste. But she enjoys doing it so much he appreciates her pictures for that reason alone. She has a temper, but so does he and an occasional fight isn't a bad thing. She can vacillate quickly between tender and rough, but he needs both from a partner.

"Aw, man. She's not only tall, she's perfect?"

_Perfect, no. She can be bossy and demanding, and she's always convinced she's in the right. She doesn't appreciate sarcasm and, since she's the only person I talk to, I'm left with cracking jokes in my head. We don't even like any of the same movies so most of my references fly right past her. We have different ideas about how to spend down time – though I've come to appreciate her ambition and she's learned to take time to relax._

He snaps his fingers and mimes holding a book, like he did yesterday. Only this time he rolls his eyes and chuffs out sound of disgust, before tossing the imaginary book over his shoulder.

"She doesn't like books?"

_Too much of an understatement. _

He repeats the book motion, pretending to read it before yawning, then throwing it down and stomping on it.

"She hates to read."

Emphatic nod, _yes._ Eva will sit and paint for hours, but has no patience for the written word. She doesn't have anything against storytelling; she loves plays, operas, movies and television, but her appreciation for art is limited to the visual.

"Sam, too. Gai is more like me; he taught himself to read by the time he was five and hasn't stopped since. I love getting lost in a good book, but anymore I'm usually too busy to read one. Speaking of which, I'm almost done with 'The Dangerous Husband'. I can't believe she went on the lam with his pet frog!"

They share a laugh, and he remembers this. Once, when looking to borrow a t-shirt to change into, Veronica had found half of his dresser drawers were filled with books. He'd always been circumspect about his gluttonous reading habits, embarrassed for some reason, but she'd found him out. That summer he had started loaning her books to take on her stakeouts and they would talk about them afterward. It was one more thing to miss about her.

"And that scene in the vet's office, when she learns what happened to his past animals?" She snickers, shaking her head. "I'm actually not sure if the narrator is going to survive this book. Or if she should. In her own way, she's as awful as he is."

_Like Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas in 'War of the Roses'._

"Did you ever see 'War of the Roses'? One the best movie endings, ever. I have a feeling that's the direction the book is heading."

_OK. That just happened._ His grin is massive, and it feels like it's taking up the entire bushy, bottom half of his face.

They head back updeck, and part ways. He still has a little while before he has to relieve Diego and there are assignments to be handed out.

* * *

It's after one and his stomach is starting to growl like a tomcat during a full moon when Veronica shows up in the doorway of the wheelhouse. She has a covered plate balanced on top of what looks like a couple of books, and a soda tucked under her arm.

All morning various memories from their past have been coming to the forefront, as if that one memory were the Pied Piper and the others are all following. It's a relief to see the live action version again, since this one doesn't view him with any more history than the past two days in her eyes.

"I was bringing your book back, so volunteered to bring your lunch too. Though I don't recommend it. I honestly didn't think anyone could screw up pupusas."

_Wolfgang Puck, Javier is not. _

Logan takes the plate and drink from her and nods his thanks, biting into the subpar meal anyway. Hunger has its own seasoning and he's used to making do. Eva more than makes up for it with her cooking when he's home.

_Eva. Damn. I'm sorry this situation is jacked up. It's not fair to be missing you this much when I'm so glad to be sitting here with Veronica._

Veronica sets the books on the shelf to his left, one of which is his, and he's able to see the other item isn't a book but an electronic tablet. She tips it in his direction. "I thought maybe, if we got to talking, this would make it easier. So far you haven't been real big on details."

He holds his hand out for the tablet and puts it in his lap while he finishes his meal. She's patient, looking out the window while he eats.

_Why does it seem like she keeps singling me out? I wonder what her husband would say about that. Sure as hell if he and I were to switch places I wouldn't want her talking up some sailor._

When he puts his plate to the side and picks up the tablet, she hoists herself onto the shelf and faces him, swinging her feet.

"I hope you don't mind me coming up here to hang out. Not that I don't enjoy your company, but Petturi keeps finding me everywhere else I go." She lifts her lip into a disgruntled snarl. "He keeps cornering me to brag about all his success on assignments, like I'm some bar floozy he's trying to impress. I'm tempted to whip it out and say 'Hello! I have one too!'"

Logan takes a pointed glance at her pants, making her snort and pull her FBI badge out of her back pocket to flash at him. "Stop. This is a family show." She tucks the badge back where it came from and tilts her head at him. "But it gets tiring talking to a guy who's convinced he put the bomp in the bomp-sh-bomp-sh-bomp. OK if I hide out here for a few?"

The little sinking sensation in his gut isn't disappointment. It couldn't be. The feeling must merely be relief that she isn't interested in anything but an escape hatch from Petturi. His forced silence probably helps.

_Either way, it's not like I can resist a Veronica Mars head tilt. _

Logan holds up a hand, fingerspelling O K, then turns his attention to the huge swatch of uncluttered sea before him, like he has to keep his eyes on the road so he doesn't hit anything.

Veronica stretches out a foot and nudges the e-tablet in his lap. "I've spent almost two days on this raft, and I have to say, you don't strike me as your typical sailor. These other guys seem to fit in here, but you're just…different. Did you ever want to do anything else?"

So she does want him to talk. He looks down at the tablet. It's better than a pad of paper; she can't use it for handwriting recognition and he can delete anything he writes. Pulling up the keypad, he starts typing, keeping one hand on the wheel.

'Sing alto in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I haven't given up on that dream.'

She rolls her eyes at him. "Cute."

'Auctioneer? Circus Barker? DJ? I'm still a young man. Don't mock my dreams.'

"Why did I know you would be a smartass? Give me my tablet back." She holds out her hand, but he ignores her, typing again.

'Maybe I'll be a fed. Would that be a good job for me?'

"Sorry, they filled their sarcasm quotient when they hired me."

'Oh well. I hate wearing suits anyway.'

She exhales an exasperated laugh. "You made your point. Change of subject."

God he'd missed that – the back and forth, give and take, quip and crack that comprised at least half of their conversations. There was no one in his present life to play with him in that way; she had her dad, and from what he remembered Mac and Wallace could bring it when needed. It made him wonder about Sam, and then decide that was one thing he absolutely didn't want to know.

He starts poking around on the tablet, being careful to keep the centered on Gai. 'Did you get to talk to your son today?'

The smile is back, the one he now thinks she uses just for Gai. "Did I tell you he plays the sax?"

Logan shakes his head, _No._

"Started when he was barely five. The thing was almost as big as he was. Sam's mom is a musician; it's her fault Gai wants to be the next Frank Trumbauer. We were at their house for dinner and Gai started asking about her record player—I've never even had one - so she put on some vintage recording and he was hooked. She started teaching him the sax right after. Anyway, he's learning a new song and it was all he talked about."

'You like your in-laws?'

Her hesitation is telling. She puts up a hand, holds it flat and wavers it in the air. "Giv, Sam's dad, is a sweetheart. We get along great. But Endora - sorry, _Lois_ - and I aren't the best of friends. I was never good enough for her son and she makes sure I know it. She tried to fake it at first, but the only reason she even pretends to tolerate me anymore is because of Gai. Those two…" She holds up her crossed fingers in illustration.

_Well, you wouldn't be Veronica Mars if you weren't making enemies somewhere._

"Give me the tablet. I'll show you something."

Logan hands it to her and she taps around for a minute. When she gives it back a video is cued up, about two minutes long, the paused screen showing only a fuzzy gray. He hits the play button and the gray turns out to be the floor as a video camera is raised to show a little kid wearing a flat cap, a pair of sunglasses and a little black blazer, holding onto the large saxophone hanging around his neck. In the back is an older woman on the piano. They are in an over decorated living room with framed album covers on the walls.

Logan grins at this first image of her son. The kid is standing so confidently, almost cocky as he listens to the music playing in the background. Apparently hearing his prompt, he starts blowing into the mouthpiece and working the buttons of the instrument he's holding. It's a little – ok, a lot - rough, but you can see how hard the boy is working it, his cheeks blown out and trying to sway in between notes, like all the greats do. All he's missing is a beat-timed finger snap.

"His first public concert. He learned how to snap right after that, and does it to keep time in between his parts. At least, that's what he says. Really it's because he thinks it looks cool."

Logan watches the video until it ends, then restarts it and runs it through again before reluctantly giving her the tablet back. He would love to keep it and see if there are any more videos, or glimpses into her life.

_No, dude. That way lies madness._

"Malachy?"

He turns to look at her, wondering at the question in her voice. She is working her lower lip between her teeth, her forehead scrunched up into wrinkles.

"Is this weird? I mean, we've barely known each other a day, but it feels like we're friends. And if you knew me, you'd know I don't make friends that easily. If I'm bothering you please let me know. I've been told I can be…pesky."

_Maybe it's because the first time you meet people, you're usually accusing them of something or asking for a favor. Tends to make them a little prickly – though it's one of my favorite things about you._

But he's gratified to know the feeling of connection isn't on his end alone; she's not up here just to hide. They always were friends, even when they didn't act like it. Richard Dreyfuss is suddenly narrating in his head, a la 'Stand by Me'. "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?"

He points to the tablet and she hands it to him, waiting while he types. 'True friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable. ~David Tyson.' He turns it around to show to her, then wants to pull it out of her sight when he realizes what he's done.

_Quotes. Why not just type 'I'm Logan Freakin' Echolls' while you're at it, idiot. Your best bet is to probably overplay this hand. _

She laughs, but he can see that flicker of uncertainty as he turns into a ghost in front of her eyes again. Regardless, she plays it off by punching his shoulder lightly. "You would know."

'If friends were flowers I'd pick you'.

She gives what could only be described as an '_oh, please'_ expression. "Ok now you're just being a smartass again."

'Friends are like bras: close to your heart and there for support.'

She grabs the tablet from him, genuinely laughing now. "You are officially cut off."

He sticks out his lip and pouts, holding onto the wheel while stretching to reach the device she's holding just out of his reach.

"No! Get your own. Anyway, I'm off to see if I can scare up trouble elsewhere. I'll see you later."

He watches as she goes down the stairs, smiling when their eyes meet before she drops from his sightline. Time has always moved at a moderate pace since he's worked this ship; there isn't much in his life that creates either anticipation or dread to change the pace of the clock. But suddenly the two hours before he can go find her again stretch out interminably before him.

* * *

Carlos is a frustrating fifteen minutes late relieving him. This isn't unusual, and normally Logan doesn't care, but today he's irritated as hell.

He hands over the helm, giving simple, hurried instructions about their minor course corrections before heading out. Carlos throws a comment over his shoulder that unknowingly gives him just what he wanted.

"Hey, go over to the aft deck. That lady fed is there and turned it into a bit of a party."

Once outside, Logan can hear the music playing, a raucous Los Prisioneros number, and follows it to its source. There he finds Javier, Chuck, Winston, Connor, and even that FBI guy, clapping and swaying along while one of the young navigators, Louis, is giving Veronica a salsa lesson.

She doesn't move with the naturalness of Louis, or even Eva, but she's not bad for a novice. Logan pulls himself up to sit on top of a large storage box and watches. Louis is a patient teacher, and Veronica is the best kind of student. She listens to all his instructions, repeats them back to him, and takes it in stride when she messes up.

Eva loves to go dancing, so had taught him to be 'eh…okay' at this. When she was giving him lessons, he'd been embarrassed when he didn't pick it up immediately. She had admonished him, saying if he couldn't get out of his own damn head he might as well just sit at home while she went out to the clubs without him. This, he knows, is why Veronica picks up new skills so easily; she doesn't let self-doubt or embarrassment get in her way.

"_Why are we doing this on the beach? I thought surfing was done in the water." Veronica wrinkles her nose at the board lying in the sand at her feet._

_He looks at her, thin almost to the point of being boney, with barely the hint of breasts in her modest tank suit. Nothing like Lilly, who is all curves and cleavage as she lies sunning on a blanket ten feet away from them. Veronica won't have the same balance issues Lilly has, and has an innate athlete's grace, so he knows this will be easy for her._

"_You get in the water after you master getting up on the board. Trust me, it's a lot easier to learn on the beach."_

_She crosses her arms and gives him a look that is all skepticism. "Is that true, or did you just watch Point Break too many times?"_

"_Even craptastic Keanu Reeves films have their basis in reality." A certain 'you need a license to catch a fish…but they'll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father' line goes through Logan's head. "That scene with Lori Petty teaching him to surf they got right."_

"_Fine, Tyler. Lay your wisdom on me." She lies down on the board as instructed. _

_He is almost irritated enough with her sass to call off the lesson, but there's nothing else to do. Duncan is away at soccer camp, the waves aren't breaking enough to get in the water, and he can't leave since he's dependent on Lilly's dad to give him a ride home. No way is he calling his own father to pick him up._

_So he gives her the verbal instructions, watching when she gets to the practical part of the lesson and letting her know how to correct her form. She falls several times, but doesn't do the annoying thing of whining about how hard it is or how she's so stupid that she'll never figure it out. She just stands up, brushes the sand off, and listens to what he's telling her before trying again._

_In half the time it took him to teach Duncan, she's hopping up on the board and getting into the right crouch. He's about to suggest they take the board in the water when one of her pop-ups causes her to kick sand at Lilly. Again._

"_That's it, Veronica Mars! You're going down."_

_Logan steps back as Veronica makes a break for the water, Lilly right behind her, and then laughs as they both end up going down in the surf. _

Veronica and Duncan paired off right after that, and he and Lilly found another activity to take up their time. When he and Veronica started dating, she was too busy with school and her cases to spend a lot of time hanging out on the beach so they never got to finish their lessons.

Logan has to hold his breath while the girl she was and the woman she is blend in one strange, confusing image until the woman wins out. Watching the smooth fluidity she has while dancing, he knows she could still pick up surfing without too much work.

_So what's your plan, Logan? Going to take shore leave whenever the boat docks in L.A.? Go to the beach with her husband and kid in tow and give them all lessons? Watch the happy family and stand there like the outsider you are?_

Catching sight of him, Veronica stops dancing and checks her watch. "Uh oh, Louis, you're late for shift change."

_Not even two days on board and she knows all our schedules. Color me not surprised._

Louis grabs her wrist and checks the time for himself, gives Veronica a little hug - which she returns - then runs off in the direction Logan just came from to take over in the navigator's office. That she allows the casual touch surprises Logan, though it was completely innocuous compared to the sultriness of the dance the two of them just shared. In the past she could be affectionate with those she was close to, but for everyone else she might well have put up a 'keep a two foot distance at all times' perimeter.

_Maybe it's just one more sign that she's changed, and maybe you don't know her as well as you used to. _

The thought is unsettling, but about damn time. Maybe the 'what if' that is most probable, that he's never allowed himself to explore, is that they've both changed enough that they wouldn't even fit together anymore, except as friends.

_Wait…are you trying to convince yourself that's all you still feel for her? Friendship?_

_Would that be such a bad thing?_

_In general, no. In your case, I'm going with the words of Churchill. 'The shadow of victory is disillusion'. But hey, good luck to you. _

…_It really sucks when your conscious and your subconscious are on speaking terms, you know that? Leave me alone. I'm going with this._

Watching as she exchanges some casual words with other members of the crew, Logan can see his warning that kept everyone from talking to her the day before has worn off. They all seem comfortable with her now, and a couple even joke around with her like she's one of the crew. It makes him wonder what she's been up to while he's been stuck in the wheelhouse. And, admittedly, a smidge jealous that her friendliness has extended beyond him.

The crew members walk away, going about their other pursuits, but Logan sees Trevor Petturi hanging back like he's waiting his turn to be last to talk to her. He can't decide if the guy is clueless, or auditioning to be her lap dog. Either would irritate the crap out of her.

The music is still playing when Petturi finally comes forward, holding out his hands to Veronica. "That looked like fun. Mind sharing a few tips with your fellow agent?"

She backs up and fans herself with her hand, a wan smile on her face. "No. Too hot, I'm done. But you've lived in Chile for three years, right? Why didn't you learn it there?"

Petturi puts down his hands, conceding defeat gracefully. "Working all the time. Don't you ever feel like your whole life is the job?"

"No." A smile passes across her face and Logan knows she is thinking of Gai again. Or maybe it's Sam, except he's sure her Sam expression is a little different, though the only way he can think of to explain why is that it's less maternal. It's exactly the right description, but it'll do for now.

"But I heard one of the guys mention they were about to set up a poker game in the mess hall_. _I hear you did well last night. You should jump in before they get started," Veronica prompts.

Petturi glances to Logan, as if trying to figure out why he isn't leaving like the rest of the crew did. Logan, ever helpful, gives him a huge, smarmy grin. Veronica couldn't have made herself clearer if she had pointed toward the mess and issued a command. _Shoo, Trevor. _

With a nod, Petturi heads in the direction she suggested, glancing over his shoulder at Logan on the way. Logan resists the urge for a grand total of about two seconds, then holds up his hand and gives a little finger wave. _Good Boy._

Her face flushed and dewy from the heat and the activity, Veronica comes over to him. She pops up beside him, close enough that their knees knock together as she settles herself, and bumps his shoulder. "I noticed the makings for a decent dinner when we raided the kitchen last night. Javier said he could use a night off. Wanna be my sous chef?"

_Hmmm…two or three hours spent with her telling me what I'm doing wrong and cracking herself up with her own jokes? Sounds like old times. When we used to be friends._

He nods his head with an emphatic _yes._

* * *

**A/N:** Always and forever thank you to nevertothethird for saving me from myself repeatedly. Only 33 more days until I invade your home and your town so we can meet and fangirl over this movie together!

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone for the reviews, favorites and follows. Please keep them coming! I wish you knew the excitement on my end every time a new notice comes in my box. Hmm... I would call it the Keep Scandalpants Excited campaign but somehow that just doesn't sound couth. Maybe it's my handle?


	5. Chapter 5 - Whisky and Tears

_I should've known you'd bring me heartache  
Almost lovers always do_

_~'Almost Lover' by A Fine Frenzy_

**Chapter 5 – Whisky and Tears**

* * *

Veronica starts issuing orders the minute they're in the kitchen. "Put your mop and beard in those net thingies. You are one hairy bastard and that's an ingredient we don't need."

He eyes the hair coverings dubiously, but has to admit she has a point. When she pulls one on as well, he catalogs one more amusing memory of her. If it were junior year of high school, jokes about her future as a waitress would fly.

She grabs several bulbs of garlic, telling him to peel and mince them as she rummages around for the rest of the ingredients, then starts laying them on the counter. She's not even looking at him long enough to give her a smartass salute, so he washes his hands and gets to work.

Her efficiency raiding the cabinets, drawers and freezer remind him of the fed she is: thorough, and quick. Lord help Javier if he has any illegal contraband stashed in here, it will be found. Though, on the bright side, she might find the keys the idiot has lost for the millionth time.

When the counter is piled high and he has finished mincing the garlic, she's standing there looking around.

Logan waves to get her attention, then shrugs his shoulders and throws up his hands. _What?_

"Javier said there is a huge, cast iron skillet. How does he hide that in a kitchen this size?"

He walks over to the stove, reaching behind it to muscle out the enormous thing. It's about three feet wide, and a six inches deep. And a heavy son of a bitch. She chuckles as he puts it over the large burner on the second stove, specially designed for this purpose.

"Geez, I think your bicep is about as big around as my thigh. Did you respond to one of those Charles Atlas ads at the back of a comic book?"

_Like you could resist a guy in a cheetah speedo. _He'd gotten so comfortable with her that the quip almost leaves his mouth before he has a chance to catch it, and finds himself practically biting through his tongue in frustration.

When she turns away after giving him a teasing wink, Logan resumes his work at the cutting board.

_Well, don't you think it's about time you tell her? _

_No. Yes. No. Fuck! _

Veronica gives him a large bag of almonds to chop when he's done with the garlic, and she gets busy making salsa. They work companionably, his internal argument making her presence fade into the background, soundtracked by the song she's humming. It takes a few minutes, but he finally realizes it's 'Everything Happens to Me', an old Frank Sinatra number his mom had loved.

Catching him staring at her, she quiets and rolls her eyes. "It's Gai's new song. I've got it stuck in my head now."

He's disappointed when she doesn't resume the tune, but can't figure out how to ask her to continue. Her voice was always decent and he imagines she probably sings the little guy to sleep every night. Something every little kid should get.

She finishes the salsa and browns the almonds he's chopped, removing them with a slotted spoon and using the same pan to cook the garlic and chicken. Once that's done she adds the salsa, honey, currants, cumin and cinnamon. Meanwhile he sets a large pot of cous cous to cooking, and preps carrots for steaming. Her sure movements say how comfortable she is working in a kitchen, something he never got to see before.

While everything in the vat is simmering they wash all the prep dishes, then hop up on the counter to wait. Veronica is on his left, and he sees her studying his tattoo.

"Is that words? I thought it was just a scrolly edge. Can I?"

The lettering is small, done in a loopy cursive inside two solid lines that shape the heart. It's rare anyone looks close enough to realize they contain text, but he should have realized she wouldn't miss a small detail like that.

_Is there any chance you'd let me _not _show you? I'm going with no, since you're already curious._

Giving into the inevitable, he holds his arm out to her and she leans over, squinting while muttering the words aloud. "Her kisses leave something to be desired—the rest of her."

Still bent over his arm, she rolls her eyes up until she is staring at him from under her brows. Her next word is extended to match the timing of three of his heartbeats. "Damn."

Logan can't move his eyes away from hers, helpless to do anything to lessen the impact of this moment. Her breath is fluttering against his arm, and the old, familiar heat extends from his belly. Its tendrils snake up to wrap around his heart at the same time they reach down and give a pointed tug. An involuntary, barely audible gasp escapes his lips.

She pulls her gaze away and bumps shoulders with him, seemingly unaffected. "You know, that bit about wearing your heart on your sleeve is a cliché. You're not supposed to take it literally."

He picks up the tablet she was still carrying around with her. 'It's why I'm lobbying for tattoo parlors to be required to give sobriety tests.'

She bows her head down and laughs. "Yeah, my twenty-first birthday was a night of very bad decisions. The tattoo was the least of it."

_Tattoo? Wait, where? _Logan has never underestimated her ability to surprise him, but this really does. When he pokes out a finger and starts lifting up the edge of her short sleeve, she slaps his hand away, laughing.

"Forget it. Per the video my friend Mac sent me the next day, I spouted a very eloquent, if slurred, poem regarding who would never see that tattoo." She leans in and whispers exaggeratedly, "Apparently, I get a little rhymey when I drink rum."

She smirks, her eyes on his beard, "One of the lines went something like 'never a chance be given to a Neckbeard, lest he be mine and fully sheared'."

_If the only guy to see her tattoo would be one that's hers, does that mean it's located -? _That thought is immediately put into the pile of things he'll never be privy to, and forcibly ignored.

Picking up the tablet he taps out, 'Please tell me you kept the video,' thrusting it at her before putting his hands together in prayer and closing his eyes, mouthing _please, please, please._

Veronica laughs, pushing the device back into his hands. "No! Mac deleted it after she showed me why I shouldn't drink. As if the community service sentence wasn't warning enough."

_Right. The nursing home duty. _'Now you have to tell me that story.'

She narrows her eyes at him, then holds out her little finger. "Ok, but pinky swear this doesn't get told to Petturi or any feds who meet us at the other end of this trip."

He links his little finger with hers, using his other hand to point at his mouth and roll his eyes.

"Oh, right. Anyway, I come from this small, SoCal town and the sheriff at that time, Vinnie Van Lowe, was a total ass. He used to be a PI, and we had a mutual hate-but-help-each-other-out relationship before he became sheriff."

_Wait, when did they help each other out?_

Logan didn't know Vinnie well, just the depth of Veronica's loathing for him. This little nugget of info reminds him how much she never told him about her cases. It still causes a small pang when he remembers how much he didn't know about her, even when they were together.

Veronica crosses her ankles and starts swinging her feet back and forth. "Anyway, right around my birthday Vinnie was up for re-election. My dad and I were running a private eye business together and had just solved a case, resulting in a big arrest. Unfortunately, that made Vinnie look good enough that the election was in the bag."

_And you just couldn't let that go. Tell me you recorded him confessing to taking a payoff._

"When we finished our pub crawl I got the idea to get a little creative with Vinnie's billboards. But I knew Mac and our other friend Wallace would talk me out of it, so I waited until they went home and called Dick - another friend of mine – to grab some spray paint and a ladder, and come pick me up.

_YOUR FRIEND WHO!? What. The. Fuck._ Logan realizes his feet had been swinging back and forth in time with hers, but now they stop as every bit of his energy is put into trying to make sense of this.

"Vinnie had six billboards, and we defaced all of them before we got nailed." She rolls her eyes, tilting her head back and shaking it, making the hairnet dislodge. "Turns out the arresting officer had been following us since the first one and wanted to wait until we finished."

_Who gives a shit? Go back to the Dick being your friend thing. Did an alternate universe develop in Neptune after I left, causing people to reform alliances?_

She pulls the net off her head entirely, gathers up her hair and covers it again, more securely. "Thanks to my lawyer, Vinnie agreed to remove the arrest from the records if Dick paid for damages and I did community service. My theory? Vinnie wanted to keep me busy until the election was over. I found out later he had a few nefarious dealings going on right about then."

Logan wants to ask so many questions. All the people she brought up, Vinnie, Mac, Wallace, her dad, and her _are you fucking kidding me_ friend Dick, cause a wave of homesickness. He honestly hasn't missed Neptune, or the U.S. for years. People, yes. Places, no. But thinking of everyone at once brings up so many good memories; surfing at Cape Crescent, bonfires on Dog Beach, watching movies in her apartment, hours of video games with Dick in their hotel room.

It feels like it used to, hanging out with her. They're sitting next to each other, clutching the edge of the counter with their fingers a mere inch apart. It's reminiscent of so many other times they sat like this, on top of picnic tables, on park benches, and on the hood of her car.

Her hand leaves the counter and she runs a finger over the tattoo on his arm. His eyes follow her movement, seeing the way the hairs on his arm rise at her touch. When he raises his gaze to look at her, she gives him a self-conscious smile.

"So, do I get the story behind this? I told you mine, you tell me yours."

He couldn't ask for a better opportunity. All he has to do is open his mouth. But what's changed? If he wanted her to know where he was, he could have picked up the phone anytime in the past decade. Her first night on this ship, he chose not to tell her, and again last night when she said he was dead. He made a decision and he's sticking to it.

But her request is still hanging there, and he has to respond to it. So, with seriousness they haven't had between them since they held hands on the upper deck last night, he picks up her tablet and starts writing.

'Years ago, before Eva, there was a woman. Things didn't work out between us, and I didn't handle it well. I put myself at the bottom of a bottle and when I finally crawled out, I had both the tattoo and the scar. I don't remember getting it, but I have no question who I was thinking about when I got that heart, with those words.'

Logan watches as her eyes scan the text, and then move up to meet his. "Why didn't it work out with her?"

There are so many ways to answer that question. Ways that might be different if he were Logan to her, rather than Malachy. He starts and erases his answer three times before he finds one that works.

'Pick your reason. Because I'm an idiot. Because some mistakes you can't take back. Because when you love someone the way I love her, you're willing to let go if it's the best thing for them. And it was. I happen to know she's married, and has a family now."

Veronica's brow furrows while she reads, and when she looks up this time, it's as if she's searching for a deeper answer in his eyes. "You love her. Present tense. What about Eva?"

_Shit. I meant to type 'loved'. What say you, Freud?_

Logan hesitates, mentally editing and rephrasing before he answers. 'Eva is the best thing in my life; we're good together, and I love her. But a part of me will always wonder 'what if?' Does that make sense?'

Veronica's eyes are suspiciously shiny, as if containing the beginning of tears. She turns away from him, hopping off the counter and crossing her arms as she turns to face him. "Too much sense. I've been where you are, holding onto something that doesn't exist anymore."

The statement makes Logan want to smash the damn tablet against the wall and let go of this entire pretense. Even a fight with her right now would be preferable to this jumpy dialogue format, but instead he looks down at the screen in his hands.

'What did you do about it?'

His note causes her to give a small "hmph" of a laugh before closing her eyes and pressing her lips together. "Buried it, at first. Tried to pretend that 'what if' question didn't bother me. But when you're with someone who_ really _has your number, it's difficult to hide things from them."

_Maybe that's because you're not as poker-faced as you think. Weird. I'm kind of glad Sam really sees you. _

'What kinds of things?'

She bobs her shoulders, shoving her hands in her pockets. "We'd hit that point, you know? Where you either move forward or you end things. I kept putting off discussing it, and Sam figured out why." Her head shake is accompanied by a small smile. "The list of people who have been able to fool Sam is shorter than I am."

The nod he gives at her joke isn't to acknowledge her attempt at humor; it's to replace the lack of any other response he can give her. Logan doesn't even want to imagine how she described him and their relationship to her husband.

'But you married him.'

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. "We had this _huge_ fight. Sam said he could understand if a part of me still loved Logan, especially since he was my friend longer than my boyfriend. But I was trying to have it both ways – hold on to him while leaving room for Logan to slip back in. That doing that made me an asshole, and he – Sam - deserved better."

_He called you a what?! _

Logan's gut reaction is fury at Sam, but he can't quite pull that one out of the starting gate. He'd been there before, seeing Veronica with Duncan and feeling like he'd been just a fill-in until the guy she really wanted came back.

'How did you go from that to 'I do'?

Veronica's nose scrunches up and she laughs. "Groveling? No, seriously the fight helped. It made me realize I had to make a choice."

'Between Sam and Logan.' _But wait, if she met Sam after she graduated from Quantico, she had to have been at least twenty-four, maybe older. It took her more than five years to let me go?_

Regret and guilt pushes heavily upon his shoulders. He honestly hadn't thought she would hold on that long. She'd bounced back pretty quickly the other times they broke up.

"No." Her tone sounds surprised he would see it that way, and she frowns at him. "Between _me_ and Logan. _I _deserved more, whether things worked out with Sam or not. So I said goodbye."

_You did deserve more. But goodbye? I don't remember that conversation. _

'How did that work, exactly? You didn't know where he was.'

She gives a small shake of her head. "It wasn't goodbye to Logan, so much as a goodbye to US. I put our pictures and mementos in storage. Visited every place we had a memory. Rented the hotel room where he used to live, lay in his bed and cried. Talked to him like he was there, said I hoped he was happy, and that I was moving on."

'And that was it? Just like that, you were able to let go?'

Her brow furrows as she thinks about it. "Yes? I mean yes, over time, not just in that one day." Her grin is genuine, the earlier tears gone from her eyes. "Luckily, I was in love with the most understanding man on the planet. He gave me the time I needed."

_That smile when you talk about him. You seem happy, Veronica. Please tell me this trip didn't ruin that for you._

'Did you tell him the real reason you're down here?'

Her eyes flit away from him, and the smile fades into one that is closed and tight. "Yeah, before I left. I've never lied to him and I'm not about to start now."

Logan knows he should stop. She's dropped any eye contact with him and is getting fidgety, shuffling her feet and rubbing her hands on her pants. But she hasn't mentioned talking to Sam even once this whole trip. Feeling the plastic edge of the tablet compressing between his fingers, he forces his hand to relax.

'How does he feel about it all?' He holds the tablet out, low enough so she can see it without raising her head.

It takes too long for her to read that short, simple sentence. She's working her jaw and taking deep breaths, swallowing after each one. Finally pressing her lips together, she shakes her head and lifts it, narrowing her eyes at him. "We were supposed to be talking about you."

So this little trip is causing problems in her marriage. It probably doesn't help that, instead of going straight home, she's stuck on duty for a few extra days. Logan considers pushing, but he has no right to delve any deeper into her relationship with Sam. He doesn't think she'd tell him anyway; it's so far beyond none of his business.

'I'm not sure if I'm as grown up as you are.'

Veronica gives a small, reluctant laugh. "Oh, no. Most of the time I still feel like I have the emotional maturity of a sixteen-year-old." Her teasing tone becomes serious. "I'm just having a hard time right now; the Logan thing hasn't actually backed up on me for years. It just got to the point where it hurt too much to hold on. Maybe you're not there yet."

She reaches out and squeezes his hand briefly, and Logan lifts the corners of his mouth in the best approximation of a smile he can manage at the moment.

Veronica lets him go and walks over to the stove. "What do you say we finish this dinner? I'm starving." She lifts the lid on the pot on the boiling water and adds the layer of carrots to steam. "Maybe another seven or eight more minutes and we're in business."

When she returns to her place in front of him, she holds out her hands, a challenge in her face. "Wanna have a slap fight?"

If she can push this to the side, he can as well. But barely. With a smile that takes a little extra work, he lays his own hands flat, barely on top of hers, and waits for her to start the game.

* * *

The entire crew, with the exception of the three that are involved with keeping the ship plodding ahead, have shown up right at the beginning of mealtime. It only takes a minute to load up his plate, but it's long enough for the table Veronica is sitting at to fill up. Logan takes a seat at the next table over, next to Trevor Petturi.

She is flanked by Diego and, less tolerably to Logan, Chuck. Her dinner is a success, and Diego spends a half hour trying to recruit Veronica to replace Javier as cook. Even Javier is enjoying the dish so much he can only smile and nod at this exchange, his mouth bulging as he gets seconds and thirds.

Trevor keeps giving Logan shy smiles, like he just doesn't know how to act around someone who is different. 'Kill them with politeness' seems to be his strategy. He engages the other men at their table, asking lots of questions about their jobs and the shipping industry, willingly going with whatever tangent the conversation follows. It seems there isn't any topic he isn't interested in, and his responses are full of enthusiasm.

_No wonder this guy drives Veronica crazy. He would have made a great cheerleader in high school._

The food is great, but Logan becomes less interested in it when he notices Chuck is scooting a little closer to Veronica every couple of minutes. Just when he's thinking it's time to react, he sees Veronica's turn toward Chuck. Her smile is sticky-sweet.

"Chuck, sweetheart. Move your chair away and get your hand off my leg, or you'll be breathing through a straw the rest of your life."

_Don't doubt it, Chuck. She might look like Barbie, but she's Ripley on the inside. _

Chuck swallows and scoots his chair back, grabbing his plate and moving away from the table wordlessly. Logan's glare and shake of the head has him moving on to sit at the third, empty table.

The entire room has grown silent, watching Chuck get his comeuppance. Veronica just continues to eat, unconcerned with the reaction of those around her. It reminds Logan of when she would sit alone during lunchtime at Neptune High, just daring anyone to mess with her. Even when he'd been taunting her, he'd admired her strength.

It's Vicente who ends the silent standoff, letting out the kind of laughter that lets you know he has been holding it in until he just can't anymore. His chuckles and snorts set off a chain reaction, until everyone is cracking up, making Chuck redden in anger and embarrassment. He stands up and throws his plate aggressively in the bus tub, then stomps out of the room.

Logan and Diego exchange a look. Chuck will have to be watched closely, and his fate will depend on how he handles himself the rest of the trip. Having this many people living in small quarters for so long, they can't afford to keep someone who holds onto petty resentments.

At the end of the meal, Logan notices the sun is starting to go down. He's trying to think of a subtle way to invite Veronica to join him up deck when she suggests a game of poker to the group. In mere seconds she has enough takers and starts setting up the table.

Of course she's under no obligation to make sure he's included. It was his choice to keep them friendly strangers, and Logan's routine locks him in. He hasn't missed a sunset in all the time he's been on this tub, and skipping it so he can stalk-watch her would be noticed. Gathering up his plate and cup, he dumps them and heads out.

The only person on the main deck is Trevor Petturi, and Logan watches as the man paces on the main deck, talking into some bright yellow, plastic phone. The wind is blowing in the wrong direction and Petturi is too far away to hear more than an occasional word, but Logan doesn't care to listen. He's got too much going on in his own head to eavesdrop.

It's different, being up here when the object of his memories is just a few levels away. His choice of memory is more deliberate, and fitting since tomorrow will be replacing another as their last day together.

_"You don't have any classes today, do you?" Veronica asks as she walks into his bedroom, wicking the last of the moisture from her skin before throwing the towel at him._

_Logan catches it, watching as she pulls on the same clothes she had worn when she came to see him last night. He can't believe they are here again, starting over for the fourth? fifth? time. "No. But I could probably find my way onto campus if the motivation was right."_

_She waggles her eyebrows at him and uses her upper arms to squeeze her cleavage together, the slight padding in the bra she just put on creating a tantalizing effect. "A quickie in the Rover? I have a break between 1 and 1:30."_

_He laughs, tempted to act as if he's taking her up on the offer, but knows it's a joke. Though he was thrilled to find out she can be a wildcat when the door is closed, he knows she isn't about to get it on in a crowded parking lot. Instead he reaches out and grabs her wrist, pulling her down to lie on the bed beside him._

_Studying the lines of her face, he brushes the hair off her cheek and takes in the happiness that imbues her look. He never thought she'd look at him that way again. "Forget it, Bobcat. There is nothing that's going to be quick about us. Get used to long walks on the beach, waltzes, and long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."_

_Veronica grins slowly, until it reaches her widened eyes. "Oh, my."_

_"How about a date tonight, instead?" He places his palm against hers, leaning forward to give a gentle kiss to the bruise he had made on her neck the night before. He wouldn't have done it intentionally, but doesn't mind the claim implied – it matches the scratches she left on his back._

_Their fingers twine together and he lifts his head to smile down at her. "The kind where we dress up. I hold open doors and pull out chairs, tip the waiter for a better table to impress you, then bring you back here and show you how much of a gentleman I'm not."_

_She kisses him, swooping her tongue into his mouth and placing a leg over his hip so his sheet-clad erection is pressing against her in just the right spot. With a moan he grinds against her, letting go of her hand so he can reach for her bra clasp, only to be thwarted by her sitting up._

_"Hold that thought until tonight. I have a test in less than an hour and have to meet Wallace right before. First, I have to go home to change."_

_He groans and flops onto his back, putting his hands behind his head. "Throwing me over for another man? Tell Wallace you'll meet him later and stay ten more minutes."_

_She pulls on her shirt and shoots him a wry grin before dropping to the floor to hunt for her shoes. "What happened to nothing being quick?"_

_"I said that when I still had enough blood in my brain for rational thought. Why are you meeting Wallace?"_

_She settles on the edge of the bed, pulling on her trainers and tying them. Her back is to him so he can't read her expression. "Wallace is playing middle man, exchanging Piz and my breakup boxes. For some reason Piz isn't real keen on doing it himself."_

_He doesn't want to dwell on the floppy haired twit that was gunning for Veronica from the minute he met her. Kind words would not be said and, since Logan ended up the victor, he can afford to be magnanimous. But the breakup box thing he understands; she has a habit of borrowing things without asking. Or returning them. "Speaking of which, I think you still have a CD or two of mine."_

_Veronica turns, squinting one eye and cocking her head. "I'm pretty sure if you don't reclaim something within two weeks of the breakup, you no longer own it."_

_"Moot point since we're back together."_

_"Are we? I don't recall actually agreeing to that."_

_He jumps up and scoops her behind the knees, falling on his ass on the bed when she wriggles in his arms, laughing. "Did you mean what you said last night?"_

_Logan sees her tongue dart between her lips to moisten them before she rolls them together and takes a deep breath. He waits her out, familiar with her stalling tactics. It's such a fucking vulnerable feeling, waiting to see if she's going to play like it didn't happen. When she speaks it's slow, and taunting. "I. Love. You. Logan. Jeez, are you always going to be this needy?"_

_"Yes, get used to it. I also don't want there to be any confusion about where we stand. I'm yours and you're mine and anybody who doesn't get that can go to hell, including you. We'll brand each other if that's what it takes to make it clear."_

_Logan watches as she swallows, her gaze never wavering from his, and nods in agreement. "So, I'll see you tonight. I can be here by seven."_

_He walks her to the door, kissing her goodbye before taking his own shower. The day seems incredibly long stretching out before him but, speaking of breakup boxes, he needs to pack up Dick's crap. Logan promised him the room between noon and five tomorrow to get his stuff, and wants to make sure nothing is left behind. _

_He picks up the phone and makes a 7:30 reservation at one of the local, upscale restaurants that will inspire Veronica to wear a dress. He really wants to see her in a dress again. The last time was the red number she wore when they were fighting about her chasing the rapist, and Mr. Mars had practically kicked him out of the house, again. Despite how pissed he'd been at her, he'd noticed the outfit._

Logan's reminiscing is interrupted by Trevor Petturi walking back toward the front of the ship while talking on his phone. He doesn't hear much, just a few words carried on the wind, "Si,…No…problema. Gracias…si, Josef," but it's enough to distract him.

As Petturi's powering down the phone Vincente approaches him. Their conversation is brief and too low to be heard before they go back toward the mess - likely another table is being organized for poker. Logan considers joining them, but his head is too full to focus on cards.

The distraction is appreciated, since it stops his thoughts from returning again to that last day in Neptune. He doesn't need to rehash every step that led to his decision to pack his car, and replaying that breakup twice in the same week is a bad idea. Now more than ever, he is convinced his leaving was the best choice for her sake.

At the time though, he'd questioned the decision repeatedly. He had wandered the coasts of Europe, hotel hopping every day or two. Most of that next year-and-a-half is still fuzzy, just an alcoholic haze of surfing, partying and getting in fights every time it felt like if he didn't hit something he would explode.

The scar by his eye and the chipped tooth happened in Espinho, the incident when his arm was cut open went down somewhere between Almeria and Malaga. He only remembers them because of the days he was shore bound, unable to surf because of his wounds. He has no idea when or where he broke his nose.

Greece was the end of his European jaunt, when he woke up in the hospital after spending almost a week unconscious. He had a broken jaw, a hangover, and withdrawal symptoms worthy of a Rat Packer. He had also left a trail any two-bit hacker or PI could follow.

Logan was allowed to sign himself out of the hospital only after a mandatory meeting with a psychologist. The woman was a straight shooter and told him if he wanted to kill himself, he should stop playing with the idea and just do it. If he wanted to live, he was going to have to do it sober.

So, for more than two days he had he sat in the shithole apartment he rented and stared at the bottle of sleeping pills and the fifth of imported Jack he had bought. Logan was barely twenty and he'd had to pick himself up so many times that he already felt ancient. He wanted a drink, craved the burning sensation the first shot would bring and the oblivion that would come after half a bottle. But he was familiar with the way his emotions spiraled down when he was drunk. The pills would definitely follow. That bottle of Jack had the equivalent of skull and crossbones on it, and he pulled back every time he reached for it.

Figuring it was the method rather than the act that he was having a problem with, he put on his coat and went out, seeking the highest building in town. Cassidy and his mom had both willingly plunged to their deaths; they could be his example. Cassidy especially; he had just stepped backward, as if he were moving toward life rather than away from it. The psycho hadn't even made a sound on the way down.

Finding a ten story building, Logan made his way to the top and stood on the ledge, his foot hanging into air, knowing that it would only take one, last step. For over an hour he had hovered there until he finally took the step, but backwards, collapsing onto his ass firmly and safely on the roof.

He was surprised to find himself angry. Furious. He didn't want to die. Not now and not in six months from a failed liver, nor from a gunshot or a knife because he had finally pissed off the wrong guy.

What he wanted was to catch a plane back to Neptune and set everything right side up. Spend the next sixty years making it up to Veronica for hurting her again.

His ire was short lived though. He hadn't left in the first place for himself; he had left for Veronica's sake. He didn't want her getting nostalgic and looking him up, so he finally narrowed down his options. He couldn't live anonymously as Logan, and yet he did want to live. At a small café he begged a few sheets of paper off the waiter, and then made notes while inhaling a meal large enough for two men.

It was time to find a new continent, a new name, and truly start fresh. He'd paid attention, listening when Veronica and her dad had discussed cases, and had two decades of film and books to draw information from.

It took him almost a month to pull it off. He started by creating a false trail, making day trips and using his credit cards so it would look like he was traveling the coasts of Greece. While in one of those towns he withdrew half of his remaining funds in cash.

After two weeks in Athens he found someone able to sell him a false identity with full backing. They culled the birth certificate of a child that was born and died in Ireland in his same birth year. All traces of the child's death were removed, including any obituaries or online references. Top dollar was paid for a passport, driver's license, and PPS number, to have school records and job histories planted, tax records falsified, and backdated history uploaded in to a couple of social networking sites – the kind that you don't post pictures to.

He ended up with barely enough money to cover his credit card bills, hire a money guy smart enough and dirty enough to hide his other trust money when it came through, buy a plane ticket to Chile, and survive until he got a job. While being a millionaire playboy doesn't prepare you for much, Malachy Lynch's job history and fake letters of recommendation helped him secure a position as dockworker in Antofagasta.

The work was incredibly physical, and he chafed a bit at having to answer to somebody else, but the job was the best thing for him. He was in the first stages of alcohol recovery; having a structure and routine to follow helped enormously.

Once he adjusted to the physical demands of the job he no longer spent his evenings exhausted, which made it harder to not think about drinking. Or to not think about Veronica, which made him think about drinking. He bought himself a computer and found an online chat group for recovering alcoholics, still wary about getting involved with other real people, even under his new name. The online group was always there – the members would shift but it helped to talk to other people dealing with similar crap.

Then one day, as he was clocking out, he noticed a 'crew member wanted' ad and jumped at it. The walls of his apartment had grown too close and he loved the idea of being out at sea, where he could spend the nights under a sky without the confines of an apartment or a city.

After he'd been on the ship a couple months, he had gone looking for Diego to ask him a question. The man was staring at a sealed bottle of tequila as if it had him entranced. Logan had recognized the look, and so began a two man AA group. They shared their stories, albeit an abbreviated, written one on Logan's part. He didn't give Diego his real name, or exactly why he had changed it; the details weren't important. He had found a friend, and work. Over time he built a life; bought a home when his money came through and found Eva to share it.

Veronica coming back into his sphere is bringing out the old game of comparisons. He never felt like he measured up to her. She was driven, he was aimless. She was hardworking, he'd never held a job. Everything she had she'd earned, he was living off inherited money. She had friends, cohorts, and a father who loved her, he had Dick. She had a home, he had a hotel room.

Thirteen years later and she's gigantic life steps ahead of where he is, at least professionally. She had to have worked her ass off to fulfill her dream of becoming an FBI agent, he's a blue collar worker. There's nothing wrong with that, except that he has the luxury of options and just stayed with the first thing he fell into.

At some point this job stopped being his salvation. The tedium set in long ago, and another decade of dealing with men like Chuck will make him crazy. Now he can admit he's been thinking about leaving for a while. That he's become resentful of the time away from home, away from Eva.

Eva. As long as he's playing comparisons, it's natural to equate their relationship to that of Veronica and Sam's. But that feels a little unfair. Veronica fell in love with a man who wouldn't settle for half her heart; who wanted marriage and a family, but only if he was her first choice.

By contrast, he and Eva had done it backwards - shared a home, then a life, and later fell in love. No definitive decisions had to be made; there was just a day that Logan was reading at the small table while she cooked, and looked up when he heard her yell. She was stomping her foot and running water over a finger she'd burned, cursing a blue streak. He got up stood behind her so he could survey the damage. With his arm around her waist, her back against him, he brought the finger up to his mouth to kiss it. As she relaxed into him, and gave a small smile at his attentions, he knew. Knew that he loved her – had loved her for a long while by that point.

Yet, all these years Logan's held back giving himself completely over to it because he's been waiting for…something. Now he realizes it was to stop loving Veronica, stop missing her. But those feelings are too entrenched for that to ever happen. When he thinks about their conversation in the kitchen, Veronica didn't say she'd stopped loving him. She'd simply said goodbye to the possibility of what they could have been. And it was enough.

Logan replays her description – locking away the photos, lying in the bed they shared and talking to an empty room. The lonely, painful picture she painted was heartbreaking. Surprisingly, he is less hurt by it than he would have expected. Instead he feels…released.

Yet, her words had bothered him. Now, with a sudden clarity, he realizes why: Eva putting her wedding ring in a box of photos and storing them at her mother's house. Coming home from the cemetery with her eyes red and wanting to be alone instead of being held. That she hasn't mentioned Eduardo in a long time. A thousand other little things.

Veronica had said that whether things worked out between herself and Sam, letting go of the life that _could _have been was a necessary step in moving on. Maybe that's why fate took her on this journey at this time. His death, albeit false, can give her that last element of closure. And maybe her presence can allow him to face something he's been avoiding for far too long.

_Wasn't it Seneca who said 'It's not because things are difficult that we dare not venture. It's because we dare not venture that they are difficult'?_

Logan glances up at the inky sky and realizes he didn't even notice the sun going down. Looking at his watch, he's startled to see he's been on his little platform above the world for over two hours.

_I'm sure Diego took her to do her body check. Tomorrow is soon enough. _

Back in his room, he digs out his own satellite phone from his duffel bag. At least once a week he calls Eva. It helps them stay connected, and also releases the tension from spending weeks completely mute. Tonight though, he's calling because he genuinely needs to talk. The five rings it takes her to pick up sound like nails on a chalkboard, and he's about to pull out his hair by the roots when she finally answers with that deep, throaty voice of hers.

"Malachy?"

"Hey, sweetheart."

"I talk to you only two days ago. You miss me that much, eh?"

For some reason the teasing, sexy lilt to her voice causes his eyes to sting. His voice is suddenly thick and it takes more effort than normal to form words. "Yeah. Yeah Eva, I really do."

The teasing is gone, replaced by concern. "What is wrong?"

He knows his shuddery sigh can be heard by her, but that's okay. It's why he called. "You won't believe me."

She doesn't say anything for a long moment, but he can hear a rustling sound in the background before she talks again. "OK. Now I be sitting. All yours. Speak."

"I honestly don't know where to start."

"Just go. I figure out the beginning."

She already knows the early pages of this story, so he starts with finding Veronica on the deck that first night, then backs up to explain the case that brought her on board, and the false trail that led to her presence in South America in the first place. Her questions are quick, relentless, until she's satisfied.

"I no understand. She look at you. She see you. How do she not recognize you? She is stupid?"

Logan chuckles, as much from tension relief as the idea that anyone would call Veronica Mars stupid. "No, she commented on the resemblance. Context has something to do with it. This is the last place she would expect to find me. Then there is that whole thing of me being dead."

"What do you look like before?"

He can't believe she doesn't know this. If she had given him a story about movie star parents and murder charges, he would have been all over the internet looking it up. But, then again, he had asked her not to; he'd just never expected her to mean it when she agreed. "Go to your computer and type in my real name."

More rustling, then she asks, "I remember Logan, but what is last name? How you spell?"

"E-C-H-O-L-L-S." Logan can hear the clickety-clack of the keyboard keys and her sigh as she scrolls around. A few clicks later, she finally speaks.

"Ok, she not so stupid, except to think you cute then. You smile is like Joker in Batman."

Logan would think she was trying to make him laugh, except she's not one to kid around. Which makes it even funnier. He leans against the door and lets the laughter overtake him, pulling in a large breath when it finally dies down. "Damn, I needed that."

The sound of the keyboard is discernible again when he stops laughing, and he hears Eva ask, "She is short, your Veronica? Blond? Pretty?"

Of course she would see Veronica while she was already digging around. There were plenty of pictures of the two of them in the tabloids and news - from the stories about Lilly, through his father's trial, and his own charges for murder. "Yeah. She hasn't changed much."

Logan paces the small room, giving her time to finish whatever she is looking at. But the minutes snail by and he doesn't hear anything more that signifies she is still using the computer. "Eva, are you still there?"

"Yes, I just thinking."

"About what?"

"How I feel if I be her. If you hide from me, even when stand in front of me." Her tone has an edge to it that tells him to be wary.

Logan puts a hand up to scratch the back of his head, always a little itchy after removing the cap he wore all day. "How would you feel?"

"Pissed off. Malachy, she is brought there for reason. Coincidence be bullshit."

"What reason?"

Eva's huff of exasperation comes clear through the phone, and he hears a soft thump that tells him she has slapped the table, like she usually does when she thinks he's being an idiot. "I not know. You need tell her who you is."

"She's a federal agent, and I'm living under a false identity. I've been hiding for thirteen years, lying to her for two days, and she's armed. Do you really think outing myself is good idea?" The sarcasm helps him, even if Eva ignores it.

"Armed?"

"She has a gun."

"Oh. Well. She maybe shoot you, but too bad. You no tell her you are Logan, I maybe shoot you myself." Her casual tone makes him wonder if she's finally decided to joke, or if he should rethink getting off the boat when they get back to Antogofasta.

"Seriously, Eva, why would I tell her? What good could come of it?" His voice has risen a bit, making him thankful the room was originally designed to store explosives so the walls are three inches thick.

Outing himself will rob Veronica of her closure, and two days of lying to her won't make the truth go down any easier. If this were a good idea, he would have done it the first day.

"Malachy, think. When we need each other, we find each other. That is not be coincidence. Maybe she need you now."

_When has Veronica ever needed me?_ The old, bitter thought rises to the surface, only to be pulled back down by the five long years it took her to move on from him.

"I can't imagine what I could offer her after all this time." He squats on the floor, resting an elbow on one knee and palming his forehead with his hand. "But fuck, I don't know anything anymore. This whole deal is just so convoluted."

"No. Is simple. You make all the decisions before. This time you tell her you be alive, and you let Veronica make own decisions."

_Is that how Eva saw it?_ Veronica had said something similar, up on deck the night before; that he had made the decision to leave Neptune, and her, on his own.

Logan pulls in a deep breath, his love for this hardheaded, pragmatic woman making him feel almost hollow inside, since she's so far away. "She has friends, a husband, a family. Can you possibly think of one thing she could need from me?"

"No. But you think after two days you know her life? You only know answer if you ask question. Now stop being scared little boy and talk at her."

As the relief seeps into his spine, Logan realizes that, on some level, he'd know what Eva would say before he ever picked up the phone - he had just needed her to say it. Say that maybe there was another reason that, of all the ships in all the oceans in all the world, Veronica had to walk onto his. A reason that had little to do with him, and everything to do with her.

"You're right. You're right about my telling her and you're right about me needing you."

"So? All this is not new." This time it's her lack of coyness that coaxes a smile out of him, but it falls when her voice turns pleading, an anomaly for her. "Malachy, when you coming home?"

"Three, four days tops. We aren't staying over in L.A." The following silence is filled with everything Logan can't talk to her about yet: his realization that she's moved on from Eduardo, his thoughts about quitting his job, what Veronica said about letting him go, his thoughts on doing the same. Any one of those topics will lead to a discussion of their future together – something best done in person and when he's had more time to think about all this.

It's hard to say what the silence on Eva's end of the phone means while it's happening. But she's is one of the most confident, self-assured people he's ever known, so the shaking in her voice is telling when she finally speaks. "What are you to say to her?"

Logan considers his answer for a moment, not having actually thought this far ahead. "That I did what I thought was right at the time. That I'm sorry I hurt her. That I'm glad she's happy now." He presses his palm to the center of his forehead, attempting to rub the bit of pressure building there. "Eva—"

"Don't." The earlier bravado is back in her voice as she cuts off the apology and reassurance he was about to give her. "If shoe is wearing other foot you not want me to feel bad. You call me when she leaves the ship. We talk then."

So instead it's Eva reassuring him, telling him that it's okay he gets this opportunity. He searches for anything he can say to make it better, but comes up empty.

"I love you."

Her quick breath is full of impatience. He's definitely the more sentimental of their two, and she's given him a task to do. Plus, she likes to do her heaviest thinking alone. "Yes, Malachy, te amo. You call me after L.A. Now, go talk at her."

Hearing the dial tone in his ear, Logan hangs up the phone and remains in his squat, tilting his head back until it hits the door. The motion sends a vibration through his body that he finds oddly soothing, so he repeats it a few more times, until his skull starts to feel slightly bruised.

Talk to Veronica. Watch as his betrayal these past two days fills her eyes. Be prepared for how much vitriol she's going to spew, if she speaks to him at all. Eva wants him to do this now, but it's late and tomorrow is soon enough. He'll tell her when he takes her down for her body check. At least there they will be alone, far from the eyes and the ears of the rest of the crew.

Logan settles into bed but is too restless to sleep. The conversation with Eva and the one he's going to have with Veronica are running so quickly through his head, they are starting to clash and morph with each other. He'll be a wreck in the morning if this keeps up; not the best way to face one of the more difficult moments of his adult life.

He switches on the light and grabs the book Veronica returned to him. There are a couple of scenes he wants to reread, hoping the twisted humor will keep his mood from slipping into morose. Flipping through the pages, the index card she was using as a bookmark falls on his chest and he picks it up, realizing the texture of the paper is wrong. It's not a card, it's a photograph.

On the back of it is written _Sam, Veronica and Gai_ with a date more than two years prior. An insatiable curiosity goes through him, but he hesitates before turning the photo over.

_Do I really want to look at the guy? Of the life she created once I left? _

_Who are you kidding, Logan? No way are you not peeking. _

_I know, but I had to be all dramatic before I did it. Hollywood child, remember?_

He turns it over slowly, concentrating first on the smile on her face before taking in the rest of the picture. She and a man are side-by-side, a child in front of them. A homemade banner behind their heads reads _Happy 10th Gai!_

_Ten? I thought she said the kid was seven? Seven, going on forty going on…twelve._

He looks closer at the child. Skinny, pale, giving a beaver-toothed grin to the camera, his brown hair a little long and shaggy, and his dark brown eyes staring at the photographer. The man over his shoulder looks to be about thirty, handsome with light brown skin, black hair and startling blue eyes.

_Two blue-eyed parents with a brown-eyed son. That's practically impossible. _

Logan turns the photo over and rereads the date on the back.

_January 26, 2018._ _Which means he was born January 26, 2008. We spent that one night together in May of 2007. She said she and Piz hadn't had sex. She said it again that night in my hotel room, after I admitted I hadn't slept with Parker, either. Which could mean…_

The photograph starts wavering in front of him, whether due to his shaking hand or the moisture that is suddenly distorting his vision, he's not sure.

_Are you kidding me? Is this for real?_

Another look at the photo and he knows with every cell in his body that it's true. And that his leaving was worse than he ever knew.

_The kid is mine. That night we spent together, she got pregnant. I took off and left her to deal with all of it alone. Putting herself through college and the FBI academy while raising a son. Our son, on her own. _

His eyes travel back to Sam, one arm casually behind Veronica's back, the fingertips showing where he is clutching her bicep. His other arm is in front of him, wrapped around the waist of the child.

_Not entirely alone. She found someone to take my place, to be a dad to the kid. All the talks we've had, how did I miss this? Wait…she said Gai was five when he saw his grandmother's record player for the first time. How would that happen…unless the first time he was at Sam's mother's house was when he was five. _

Logan looks closer at the child, recognizing the straight nose, full cheeks and tall, squarish forehead from his own childhood photos. The mouth isn't his or Veronica's, and he's not sure which side of their families to attribute it to. It's not a father's hubris to say the boy is good looking; he has classic features that will grow into handsomeness as he gets older. But, regardless of how he looks, it pains Logan that he didn't get to see these features develop from the generic sameness of infanthood.

With that sense of loss comes an insatiable curiosity, a need to catch up. He wants to know about every childhood illness, scrape and bruise, loss and triumph, to see every video and picture. His waiting to admit his identity to Veronica has cost him two days when she could have been telling him about Gai.

Suddenly his berth is too small, and too hot. It can't contain all the emotions that are ricocheting around his chest. Emotions he can't even place a name to yet. Reverently placing the picture back in the book, he throws on a pair of shorts and a ratty t-shirt, grabs his pillow and heads out to lie on the deck. The book comes with him, though. He's not ready to let go of his son in even this small way, yet.

Logan stops at her door, wanting to pound on it and get this all in the open. But it's late and he doesn't have enough of a handle on his feelings to face her yet. This conversation just got a lot harder, and his falling apart won't help anything. Definitely better to wait until the morning, when they have as much privacy as this ship can afford.

It's a warm, pleasant night, if humid. Even out at sea like this, the nights can get sticky when they are this close to the equator. The moon is a few days from new and doesn't do much to light the way as he heads to his favorite spot, a wedge of space between the side of the boat and a storage container, at the stern of the ship. There are shadows enough for privacy from the other crew, but room to stretch out. Throwing down his pillow, he lies down and extends his legs out in front of him.

Logan stares up at the sky, unseeing. All he can think about are the photograph and the video he'd been shown. These two things keep looping in his head, and no way in hell is he going to be able to sleep tonight. There are also too many ways to replay the events of all those years ago, and he knows he won't get to rest until he exhausts each one. Every possibility and missed opportunity that would have afforded him the right to be a father to _his son_. His son. His son.

* * *

Logan wakes when a soft, bony thing falls on top of him with a small _oof_. Trapped under the slight weight, and still half-asleep, he reaches up, his fingers working into a handful of long, silky hair.

"Watch…where…you…fuck!" She pushes off of him, her hands getting a fistful of his beard before she rolls to the side, curls up and clutches her stomach as she laughs, low.

_I've been known to, when the angle is right._

"Malachy, is that you?" Her exaggerated whisper is the only sound on the quiet deck, other than the light _slap slap_ of the waves hitting the boat. It's her calling him Malachy that pulls him out of his dream state, reminding him of their present circumstances.

He fumbles around until he finds her hand and draws an 'M' in it in confirmation. He can't speak freely to her on this deck; anyone outside could overhear when he speaks, or when she justifiably loses it on him. She would hate this drama being played out in front of others.

Her laughter fades away and she lets out a huge sigh, but keeps her voice low, conspiratorial. "It was too hot to be inside, and you never get a sky like this in San Diego. Check it out. It's amazing."

She's right; the sky seems lit up with stars, the lack of light pollution and smog making every one of them visible. But he's inured to the sight and still too caught up in his earlier discovery to even care that he's sharing it with her.

A couple of hours ago it would have been sweet torture to lie beside her in the dark and not touch her. Now he just wants to sit with her in a well-lit room and demand she give a detailed account of the last thirteen years, from the moment she found out she was pregnant until she got on this ship.

_I hate that I missed out on everything. I would have hugged you and told you it was all going to be okay. I would have made you laugh at your body changing and enjoyed every kick. I would have held your hand and helped you pick a name when you couldn't decide. I would have taken care of him when you were in class and made sure you didn't have to work, too. I would have married you, if you said yes, for a hell of a lot more reasons than just the baby._

"Shh! You're thinking too loud." Her giggle is uncharacteristic, and he wonders about it. Even when she was all about sweater sets and pastels she wasn't a giggler.

Logan gives an audible exhale and lifts a hand so he can use his fingertips and thumb to massage his temples. He had the beginnings of a headache and this is making it worse, the residual effect of holding in what he is thinking or feeling. He wasn't made to emote silently. Sitting up, he puts his back against the storage container, his legs stretched out in front of him.

He's about to stand up, take her hand and try to lead her below deck when the question about the giggling is answered. The fumes from a container of sour mash is passed under his nose as she settles down beside him. "I have contraband. Interested?"

_Veronica is drinking, and giggling. This is not your typical behavior in the Mars 'I control everything' 'verse. Didn't she say earlier she's learned not to drink?_

The smell of her whisky is getting into his senses and he pushes the flask away, not wanting to even think about how easy it would be to drain the damn thing and shut off his brain for a few hours.

Her speech is low and drawn out, though she's not gone enough to be slurring. "God, this week. All I've done is think and cry and not sleep and think again. And don't forget feeling up the corpses of dead agents. That might be the highlight."

_This conversation will definitely wait until the morning, since she's not sober. We can mark off 'The three signs of Veronica buzzed', as Lilly dubbed them. We have giggling, check. Slow, whispered speech, check. And finally, the rambling conversationalist, check. Wait. Dead what?_

"All I can think about is Logan, and then I feel guilty for thinking about Logan, instead of Sam. I mean, who deserves my thoughts more? I'm a frigging mess but I can't help it and I have to get it together before I go home." She reaches over and grabs his hand, pulling it into her lap and playing with his fingers like a small child might.

He should leave. Get up and go to his berth if he's not going to talk to her tonight. But the least he can do is not leave her alone when she's already so down.

"Nobody even mentions Logan. It's like this unwritten rule. I'm pretty sure everyone I know got together and made a pact. But ever since I came down here I've been missing him. I miss him so goddamn much."

_I'm right here. I'm right fucking here. I've missed you too._

Now she's bookended his hand with her own, walking her fingers up and down each side in synchronicity. She gives a soft laugh and he turns his head to look at her, studying the little bit of profile he can see outlined in the dark. "Do people often treat you as their priest, or am I the only one? Seriously, just put a hand over my mouth if you want me to shut up."

_No. It's my turn to listen to your drunk ramblings._

Her sniffle seems out of place given the warm, humid weather, and he catches the movement when she tilts her cheeks to her shoulders to swipe at them.

Logan nudges her when she's quiet for a while, making sure she's still awake. She nudges back, then lays her head on his shoulder and clasps his hand in her lap, giving a deep sigh.

"You, my friend, have the unfortunate luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm grieving like I'm his widow. This might be easier for both of us if you stop being so nice to me."

He can hear the liquid in the flask slosh around as she takes another drink. "I'm a mess. That's what happens when you only get your drink on once every decade. A few sips and you end up cuddling on a boat deck with a stranger because he's not only nice, but also has the same eyes as the guy you're trying to forget, and you spill your guts to him."

There is a _thunk_ as she drops the flask to the deck. She shifts, her head turned so their faces are only a few inches apart.

He knows it's stupid. He feels his hand rising in the air and part of his brain is telling him to stop, that he's about to make a huge mistake.

But he does it anyway. He takes his hand and uses it to brush back the hair that has fallen across her forehead, running it over her ear. It's not the touch of a sympathetic stranger, or even a friend. It's the touch of a lover and he's daring her to recognize it. The move is cowardly and he immediately regrets it, pulling his hand away from her.

The response he expects is hesitation, confusion, or even anger. What he gets is her turning her body his way, throwing a leg over his lap, and clenching her hand in his hair as she pulls him in for an unexpectedly deep kiss.

Their long-ago established pattern dictates his movements as he lowers his hands to lift her thighs and reposition her. However, when she moans into his mouth he feels nauseated, rather than impassioned.

Veronica is small and light, the opposite of the woman who has occupied this space for nine years. Her scent is of vanilla and cinnamon, rather than ocean air, sunshine, and a hint of turpentine. Her tongue is coated with whisky and tears, instead of the cayenne and chocolate of Eva's evening kisses.

Logan breaks off the kiss, resting his forehead against hers while waiting to catch his breath. The sob she gives when she pulls back crawls out of her throat and into his heart, and before he can think to stop her she jumps up and takes off at a run, away from him.

* * *

**A/N:** My eternal gratitude to nevertothethird who not only tolerated hours of discussions about this story and chapter these past week, but who also reminded me what it means to be a grown up.

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone for the reviews, favorites and follows. Your interest and feedback is more encouraging than you'll ever know. Please keep them coming! There's still quite a bit to go here and hearing from you guys is what keeps me going!


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